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FRUIT OF WESTERN LIFE; 



OR 



BLANCHE, 



OTHER POEMS 



/ 
/ 

DAVID REEVE ARNELL 



" First fruit of fancy and of toil, 
Child of few hours, and those most fugitive." 

Wiffen's Tasso. 



NEW-YORK: 

J. C. RIKER, 129 FULTON-STREET 

1847. 



f^ 









Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, 

By J. C. RIKER, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New-Yorlc. 



Printed by Leavitt, Trow & Co. 
33 Ann-street, New-York. 



TO WILLIAM F. COOPER, ESQ. 

My Dear Friend: 

A desire, (in which I know you participate,) that I should be 
fairly represented especially in the* South and West, has induced 
me to collect into this little volume, these fugitive Poems, many 
of which have already appeared under my name, in sundry Mag- 
azines and Newspapers of the day. I have no other apology 
to offer for presenting this book to the Public. I have done 
it in sincerity, as the very best thing I could do ; and though I 
am sensible that the experience of a longer period of years than 
make up my life, would enable me to attain to a more complete 
expression of the truths I would utter, yet I could not bear to 
let these little songs be so soon forgotten; and in giving 
them to the Publisher, I feel, likewise, that I have discharged 
a debt of gratitude to those friends who have always received 
them kindly, — may I not hope, for some other reason, than 
merely because they are mine ? 

I have only to add, that the Tale which I have placed in 
the van, is simply a memento of very early years, which I have 
still the heart to preserve, by reason of the associations with 
which the composition of it is connected. The shorter Poems 



4 DEDICATION. 

must speak for themselves. It has been a desire with me, for a 
long time, that I might be able to contribute something that 
should, at least, be characterized by purity of sentiment, and I 
may add, by earnestness of tendency, to the Literature of the 
growing West. The result of my efforts, thus far, are the 
following pages. 

To you, my friend, I am indebted for much that I have 
done. Your confidence in me has never wavered, and your 
word of " courage" has never failed. I feel most deeply what 
I am now doing ; — and in dedicating this volume to you, let 
me beg of you to look upon the act (all slight as it may seem 
to the world) as the sincerest heart-return I have the power 
to bestow ; — and let us both indulge the hope that no feeling 
less gentle may ever spring up between us, than that which 
now prompts this offering, or than that which, I know, will 
induce you to accept it. 

Your friend, 
Columbia, Tenn. D. R. ARNELL. 



CONTENTS 



Page 
Blanche : A Tale of the Heart, .... 9 

Dreams, ....... 37 

Meditations in the Mammoth Cave, Kentucky, . . 42 

The Storm- Spirit, ..... 50 

Ghosts, . . . . . . .53 

The Voice of Days, . . . . .56 

There are Moments in Life, . . . .58 

Ode on the Death of Andrew Jackson, . . 60 

Time, 67 

Seek Flowers, ...... 71 

I would not learn Forgetfulness, . . .74 

Lines Written in a Storm, .... 78 

To a Star, ....... 80 

Sonnet. — Despondency, ..... 83 

Sonnet. — Faith, . . . . . .84 

Night, ...'... 85 

Fame, ....... 87 

Room ! Room !...... 90 

Angels' Visits, . . . . . .93 



a CONTENTS. 

Page 
Fayrie-Land, , . . . . . 95 

The Volunteers' Return, . . . . - . 98 

The Young Moon on the Sky has Flung, . . 100 

God seen from the Rock, . . . . . ' 103 

I NEVER AM Sad, ..... 105 

All about Love, ...... 108 

Twilight, ...... 113 

The Silent Ministry, . , . . .116 

Death of Allen, ..... 120 

The Lone Indian, . . . . . .125 

The Montauk's Vow, ..... 129 

Hymn to the Wind, ..... 132 

Sonnet. — Poetry, ..... 135 

Sonnet. — The Poet. ..... 136 

The Fuller Life, . . . ^ . . 137 

The Cloud, . . . . . . .142 

Rural Hymn, . . . . . . 144 

To an Evening Cloud, ..... 146 

Flowers, . . • . . . . . 149 

Faded Flowers, ...... 152 

The Winds, ...... 154 

The Rainbow, . . . . . .160 

Lines to S , ...... 164 

"Ponder Boldly," . . . . . .169 

The Close of Summer, . . . . .173 

Sonnet. — The New Year, . . . . .177 



CONTENTS. 7 

Page 

Sonnet. — Humility, . . . . .178 

Sonnet. — Bigotry, . . . . . .179 

Conrad and Stella, . . . . .180 

The Dying Poet to his Wife, . . . .201 

The Stars, ...... 205 

Free Translation : Hor. Lib. iii. C. 26, . . . 207 

Three Living Lines, ..... 208 

These Little Songs, ..... 212 

Sonnet. — L'Envoi, . . . . .216 



POEMS 



BLANCHE: 

A TALE OF THE HEART 



Isa. And was she proud, sir 1 

Lord I. Or I had not lov'd her. 

Isa. Then runs my lesson wrong. I ever read 

Pride was unlovely. 
Lord I. Dost thou prate .... 



Of books ? 



L0B,D IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 



PART T.. 
I. 

A THING as fair as summer skies, 
With golden hair and sun-bright eyes, . 
And heart as light as winds that play 
Across the heaven of some blue day, 
Was Blanche, when first we met, and when 
Her summers only number'd ten ; — - 
2 



10 BLANCHE. 

And I of scarcely riper years. 

And these most strangely fill'd with tears. 

For I had been the loneliest one 

Of all beneath God's blessed sun ; 

Orphan'd of parents and of heart, 

In common things I took no part ; — 

They said I was a wayward boy, — 

I know I chas'd full many a toy, 

I know my hopes flew up too high, 

I could not rest beneath the sky ; — 

And so they taunted me, — but still 

A spirit in me spurn'd their will ; 

For me their lot seem'd all too low, 

I mounted, where the eagles go, 

Beyond the sky, and dream'd alone, 

Then sank to earth with tear and groan. 

I say, the dew of tender youth 

Fell on a heart of sad unruth. 

And when I found a human love, 

I set it on a throne above, 

Gave it an angel's voice, and hung 

Enraptur'd on the song it sung. 

Oh ! she was wondrous, wondrous fair, 

As day and sunlight always are, — r. 



BLANCHE. 11 

Men almost fear'd to see that child 

The object of a heart so wild ; 

They look'd on Blanche's innocence, 

They studied my own look intense — 

They're doubly damn'd who gave her soul 

An off' ring to their fear's control. — 

Hush ! I've no power to chide the tioo 

From whom that lovely scion grew — 

My spirit ill their kindness sees, 

Dear God ! judge Thou 'twixt me and these. 

No matter — I have borne it all ; 

We meet in no Earth judgment-hall, — 

No matter — I have strength to tell 

The blight that o'er my spirit fell ; 

For time has had no power to set* 

My brow in changeless sternness yet, 

But sometimes still a ghost is wrought 

Upon it of one pleasant thought, — 

The thought how gayly Blanche and I 

Once sported 'neath the self-same sky. 

1 1. 

Ah ! well I lov'd the solitude, — 

Then did God's handiwork seem "good ;" 



12 BLANCHE. 

And still unto my loving gaze, 

It yields some most enchanting rays. 

A landscape, drawn 'neath summer skies, 

Is pleasant to my heart and eyes ; 

Fair is the rainbow, — sweet the moon 

Feeding the quiet heart of June ; 

The clouds are often wildly bright. 

And beauteous is the sun's last light : 

And ofttimes yet it speaks to me 

In wooing accents, eloquently : — 

The streamlets have a quiet voice. 

And birds and breezes cry " rejoice ;" 

But when that love began to twine 

Its tendrils round this heart of mine, — 

When first I felt the mystery 

That my proud soul no more was free, — 

'Twas passing sweet, and yet 'twas strange, 

To sit, and muse upon the change 

That o'er my soul had come, — no more 

It lov'd them as it lov'd before ; 

For what to me were sun and sky 

When not reflected in her eye ? 

And what strange wonder might a stream 

Babble out in its moonlight dream, 



BLANCHE. 13 

Did she not in her beauty sit 
Beside me, and interpret it ? 
Oh ! it is fearful thus to bind 
Our thoughts to one of human kind. — 
I drank her beauty with the light ; 
Hers were the dreamings of my night ; 
I deem'd the very mountain air 
Swung from her curls of breezy hair, 
For me God bade the roses sip 
Their blessed fragrance from her lip — 
Her laugh was in the voice of rills. 
Her thought upon the solemn hills. 
She was my life, — and still no love 
I know, save her, and One above. 



As goldenly that pleasant time 
Flow'd by us as a fairy rhyme, 
I knew not how my life went on, 
I had no life when she was gone ; 
And yet I never breath'd her name ; 
Men only mark'd my brow of flame. 
And all who saw us, tell-tales were 
Of feelings close 'twixt me and her. 



14 BLANCHE. 

Oh, we were happy ! — song and flowers 
The links were of those precious hours. 
At morn, beneath the whispering trees 
We sought the sweethearts of the breeze ; 
Our pulses play'd a richer tune 
Beneath the golden feel of noon ; 
At eve we watch'd the stars on high, 
Scarce seen beyond the twilight sky. 
And marvell'd if that curtain broad 
Were the white shielding wing of God. 
I ask not — can ye truly tell 
Where happier ones on earth may dwell ? — 
Have ye seen spirits from the sky ? 
Were they more blest than Blanche and I ? 



Years pass'd — I watch'd the opening flower, 
More fair she grew each passing hour, 
Till by my side at length she stood 
In graceful, beauteous womanhood ; 
And on her brow that trace of thought 
Was yet more spiritually wrought. 
And on her lip a prouder curl 
Sat sentinel, than, when a girl, 



BLANCHE. 15 

It. oft press'd mine, and thought no harm. 
She grew more chary of the charm, — 
We met, — but with beseeching eyes, 
And fewer questions and replies, 
And in my heart 1 felt a strange, 
I know not but a pleasing change. 
i thought me then of future days, 
1 tried my fainting hopes to raise ; — 
I say we met, but oh ! no more 
We met like children as before ; 
For less we spake of outward things, 
And more of what the spirit sings ; 
We talk'd of common acts in life, 
We sometimes spake of " man and wife," 
And idly wonder'd if the heart 
Beat never from its choice apart. 
I cannot say how strove my will 
To keep all dark forebodings still ; 
But yet I feared — though e'en that fear 
Had something in it strangely dear. 
And this would turn to sudden joy. 
And I would be again a boy. 
And Blanche my joyous playmate — then 
A woman she would seem again, 



16 BLANCHE. 

A woman — and it rack'd me sore, 
She might not love her playmate more ;- 
I knew that she was proud, and I 
Possess'd a soul untam'd and high 
As eagles, that refus'd to bow, — 
It did not then — nor doth it now. 



It was a summer evening's close. 
The spirit that shuts up the rose, 
As lulled by sweetness had forgot 
His office, and each fragrant spot 
Was breathing still its odors forth 
Upon the robes of air and earth, — 
And there were gentle breezes blowing, 
And streams that tinkled in their flowing,- 
While floating where the Godhead burns, 
The stars had fiU'd their quivering urns. 
And swung them through the vaulted sky. 
Like lamps, deliriously high, 
In angels' hands, that nightly keep 
Their sentry o'er the world asleep, — 
And here and there a little cloud 
Dipp'd in the light its ghostlike shroud. 



BLANCHE. 17 

Then melted in the yielding blue, 

Like some fair pinion trembling through ; — 

'Twas all so bright, below, above, 

The gladsome earth seem'd ta'en with love, — 

And like a child whose joy is high, 

It danced beneath the radiant sky. — 

I deem'd, if angels ever leant 

O'er evening's sapphire battlement, 

I deem'd, if e'er their footsteps trod 

Elsewhere than the bright courts of God, 

They had been lur'd those courts to leave 

For earth, upon that blessed eve. 



It was a time for holy vows 
Beneath moon-interlaced boughs ; 
It were not strange that such a night 
Should hear full many a heart's troth-plight ; — 
And in that wild, enchanting ray 
Two lovers sat, and one as day 
Was beautiful, and both were young. 
And love was faltering on their tongue ; 
Hopes cherish'd long, yet unexpress'd. 
Were leaping from each burning breast ; 
2* 



18 BLANCHE. 

Her robe that lightly rose and fell, 

But half conceal'd her bosom's swell. 

He wander'd o'er that matchless face, 

Her curls shower'd o'er love's dwelling place ; 

His eye drank in the madd'ning fire 

From those wave-crests of warm desire, 

Then fell so soft that whisper'd word. 

Naught save the trembling spirit heard ; 

And now she bent her angel form, 

One passionate embrace, and warm. 

Was wildly given ; — if we must, 

Whenever we return to dust. 

For every burning moment take 

An age of torture, — what shall slake 

The torment of that soul which hath 

Seen loving ones around its path, 

And yielded to their heavenly charms. 

And madly sunk into their arms ? — 

They pledg'd their love, and seal'd the vow ,• — 

Fray, reader, can you tell me now. 

Who were the lovers ? — guess again, — 

Ay, guess a thousand times in vain, — 

No faery sprite bask'd in that sky, — 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! 'twas Blanche and I ! 



BLANCHE. 19 



VII . 



I cannot tell what first I felt, 

When as I worshipp'd her, and knelt. 

In holy trance before her shrine, 

One heart 1 found laid next to mine 

Upon that solemn altar ; I 

Must pass those burning moments by. 

He was a youth of quiet mood, — 

Perhaps my life was all too rude ; 

He spake to her of gold and lands, 

My heritage was honest hands ; 

But still 'twas difficult to let 

His impress in that heart be set, — 

'Twas fearful that e'en he should dare 

With me her bounteous love to share ; 

(For l)ounteous though love be, we must 

Have all within our sacred trust ;) 

And though he might have meant not ill, 

The heart is its own prophet still. 

And friends that would be friends must not 

Intrude within that holy spot ; — 

For love is awful, and it keeps 

A watch that never tires, nor sleeps, 



20 BLANCHE. 

And springs at shadows. — Day by day. 
He drew my better thoughts away, — 
I found it difficult to smile 
While he was smiting me the while. — 
To meet him kindly, — hotly press 
Aught that had burn'd with her caress ;— 
I loath'd him, — though I show'd no sign 
Of hatred in one act of mine ; — 
I heard her parents praise his name, 
I spake no withering word of blame : — 
Had they not given my angel birth, 
We should not now all live on earth ; — 
I've look'd full in the face of death 
For far less slanderous puffs of breath 
Than they sent forth to blast me then. — 
I will pay insult back again ; 
The worm must mouth my rotting cheek, 
Ere I will bear contempt, nor speak ! 
But they were safe — for her dear sake 
My soul refus'd its thirst to slake ; — 
I told her all one happy day, — 
She smiPd, nor turn'd her cheek away, 
But bade me press it ; — Ah ! I could 
Have melted in the meltino- flood 



BLANCHE. 21 

Of joy, that o'er my spirit came, — 

But then I was a child of shame ! 

And quick I stifled every hope, 

Nor thought with higher claims to cope ; — 

I knew some maids the world call'd fair, — 

It bade me their delights to share, — 

It told me such as these would suit 

My station, and it spake the truth, — 

But yet I loath'd their vapid charms. 

My only heaven was Blanche's arms. 

I told her all. — Cried she, " before 

The God we both love and adore, — 

As He is changeless, never ! never ! 

I bear a heart unchang'd forever !" 

VIII. 

She married ! yes, that other ; — I 
Need waste no words to tell ye why ; — 
Blanche ! I'll not trail the serpent's slime 
O'er that dear, injur'd breast of thine. 
'Tis fearful for two hearts to yearn 
Upon each other, love, yet turn, 
And let a thing of common clay 
Handle the cup we throw away ! 



22 BLANCHE. 

To feel, despite of change and time, 

Those hearts will flow like fairy rhyme, 

In mingled measure, pure and free, 

On in their own Eternity. — 

I say, 'tis fearful, then, to trust 

Their shrines in hands of worldly lust ;- 

The deed was done — she married — I 

With unblanch'd cheek stood calmly by, 

Nor falter'd I when by his side 

I saw her stand a blushing bride ; 

For well I knew when there she stood 

Yet in the pride of maidenhood. 

Her heart went not out with the vow 

Her lips were idly breathing now. 

I saw her cast one sudden glance 

Upon me ; then, as if in trance 

She stood ; and when he took her hand, 

Her face was not discolor'd — and 

She hardly knew it when he press'd 

His lip to hers, and fain caress'd. 

One moment, in my inmost heart, 

I felt the tide of anger start, — 

One moment, and I would have hurl'd 

The wretch to the eternal world, — 



BLANCHE. 23 

Oh, Heaven ! 'twas awful, thus to see 

My only joy snatch'd, torn, from me. — 

I say that then, one moment, one, 

Hell's darkest deed had there been done ; 

I would have rush'd and quickly made 

The wife a widow — there was laid 

A sinewy arm upon my frame ; 

I felt the fast increasing flame — 

But God be thank'd — it pass'd, and then 

A calmness stole o'er me again ; — 

And when the flaming bowl was quafl^'d, 

I pass'd it round and gaily laugh'd ; — 

Laugh'd, while the color mounted up 

In Blanche's face — I waved my cup. 

And swore she was an angel now — 

An angel, but /would not bow. — 

She felt the sneer, and then upon 

The arm of her new-married one 

She lean'd, until her grief was o'er, — 

I turn'd, and louder laugh'd once more : 

It was a triumph, but apart 

From this, that laugh chill'd e'en my heart ! 



24 BLANCHE. 



PART II. 



They did not know how pride can stoop. 
When baffled feeUngs withering droop ; 
They did not know how hate (;aii bum 
In hearts once changed from Sdlt to stern. 

Bykon. 

I. 

To hearts that love, and love in vain, 
The very joy of youth brings pain ; 
The smiles of light that round them beam 
Fling on their waste a frightful gleam ; — 
As when upon some loathsome sight 
We throw a flash of heaven's light, 
Which only serves to show the gloom 
That wraps a doleful, living tomb. — 
My heart declined, and, day by day, 
I felt some new desire give way, — 
Something I used to love and bless, — 
Something that met my warm caress ; — 
One only love was left me still, 
One only passion ruled my will ; 
I sought again the solitude. 
Where bitter thoughts might not intrude, 



BLANCHE. 25 

Where the sweet whispers breathing round 
Might shed nepenthe o'er my wound ; 
And in this bright and glorious West 
Sleeps many a happy bower of rest ; 
For it has wealth of land and streams, 
And clouds float o'er its breast like dreams, 
And hills stand sentry, and the sun 
Looks kindly all its haunts upon : — 
'Twere strange that in a land like this 
The heart could e'er be drain'd of bliss. — 
I say that mine could not forget 
The beauteousness of nature yet ; 
And Blanche had wove God's blessed things 
More closely round its trembling strings ; 
And sometimes, still, the mountain air 
Would lightly toss my curling hair 
Like her slight fingers, and the sky 
Look'd tender as her thoughtful eye, 
And I would lose all sense of pain 
When mem'ry wove its woof again, 
Till I was forced to press m)?- brow 
Upon my hands, and wildly vow 
She should be mine ; — but, ah ! my brain 
Would reel whene'er I thought again. 



26 BLANCHE. 

'Twas past — 'twas past — for ever past, — 
Fd ta'en my first embrace and last ; — 
No matter — 'twas a fiendish thought, 
Yet in my brain it wildly wrought ; 
She was unhappy — even she 
Pined in her solitude for me ; — 
And then I said, I'll watch the hour 
When thou shalt be within my power ; — 
'Tis base, I know, such guilt to tell. 
But yet I watch'd, and found it well. 

II. 

My love had chang'd to sullen hate ; 
I loath'd her from that very date, — 
But yet I kept my feelings press'd 
Deep in the chambers of my breast. 
And my lips wore as glad a smile 
As in my better days, for while 
My heart was burning for the power 
Of sweet revenge, the fated hour 
I had not seen ; I waited only 

For some regret to cross her path ; 
When in her heart, all sad and lonely, 

As where the storm his footsteps hath, 



BLANCHE. 27 



There should not be a living thing, 
Round which its tendrils still might cling. 



III. 

And did I say I loved her not ? 

Desire was all that was forgot. 

And did I say I loathed her charms ? 

I loathed the thing within her arms. 

He spurn'd me, — hear it — even he, — 

Her mate, — a cur of " low degree," 

A doubly pitiful ingrate, 

Whom we may crush, but cannot hate ! 

The worm may look upon the star — 

He drove me from her sight afar ! 

What marvel scorn began its tread. 

And 'neath its path shrank conscience dead ; 

While like a flame of leaping fire 

Mounted the trampling devil higher, 

Burn'd on my cheek, flash'd through my eyes^ 

Hurl'd back its fearful, swift replies ; — 

Chok'd me with vengeance, — struggled, burst 

In fury o'er the thing accurs'd ! 



28 BLANCHE. 



IV 



Send down thy pitying angel, God I 

To weep above the path I've trod. 

I've no compunctious throbs or fears, — 

I have no fountain left of tears. 

What I have done I'll do again ; 

The crocodile hath tears as vain 

As mine could be ; — I still will feel 

Through blood, and crime, and fire, and steel. 

My way to quiet, — still will wreak 

My feelings upon act, and seek 

A wild and dreary solitude 

Of soul, where hate shall not intrude, 

Rather than live to be the jest 

Of those I loathe ; — I will have rest I 

What words are these ? I know not, and 

I may not change them, — let them stand : — 

Weep thou, dear angel, if it be 

Repentant tears must fall for me. 

V. 

He died, — I tell not where, nor how, — 
He is forgot, — what boots it now ? 



BLANCHE. 29 

I only say the gorgeous West 

Of direful deed hath been the test ; 

On prairies broad the grass is rank 

Above full many a madcap prank, 

While happy birds still o'er may go, 

And many a reckless buffalo. — 

Why speak ? — for Blanche could never guess 

I bore one trace of gladness less 

From that sad hour. — Men talk'd of crime, 

But this ceas'd in a little time ; 

They spake of foul deeds somehow done 

In caves where never look'd the sun ; 

Thej said the West was vast and broad, 

They spake of the great eye of God ; — 

But all, I say, soon seem'd a doubt ; 

They sought no more to find it out. 

Till what, in sooth, his fate might be, 

They made no askings, — nor should ye. 

VI . 

1 said I found the hour ; — he died, 
And left an infant by her side ; 
A boy so sportive, gay, and wild 
It grew, that it her heart beguil'd. 



30 BLANCHE. 

I saw this, and I turn'd once more, 

And bow'd to her I lov'd before. 

'Twas strange no other love could twine 

Between that fair one's heart and mine ; 

There never could ; — but yet I felt 

A change upon me as I knelt 

Once more in worship at her shrine ; 

I lov'd not as in former time. 

For I had learn'd to mock and jest ; 

I thought as my love was the rest. 

My lip was wreath'd in scornings proud ; 

Men spake of Blanche, my laugh was loud. 

Oh ! it is fearful thus to smile. 

And hide a tortur'd heart the while, — 

'Tis as the pleasant fields that lay 

On Etna's bosom of decay, 

Ere the consuming devil there 

Has scath'd each ling'ring impress fair : 

And so my lips no traces wore 

Of what my fever'd spirit bore ; 

I bound them in a breathless spell. 

Taught them to mimic gladness well ; — 

And Blanche, e'en Blanche knew not the soul 

Where once she sat, and rul'd the whole, 



BLANCHE. 31 

For she had leant her spirit's wing 

Awhile upon a meaner thing, 

And all its hues had caught a stain 

That mirror'd not my heart again ; — 

Nay, hear me on, — my soul was bent 

To carry out its fell intent, — 

To wed her ? — No ! I could not press 

The lips that burn'd with the caress 

Of him I hated, — could not sigh 

For love that had been tasted ; I 

Felt my proud heart too sorely wrung 

Ever to be again re-strung. — 

Was she less fond, or I less true ? 

Ye'll soon know all — come hear me through. 

VII . 

I said her boy was wild and gay ; — 
I loath'd him, for each passing day 
His features seemed more like his sire. 
And this drunk up my heart like fire. 
'Twas on a night of storm and fear, 
I sat her fainting heart to cheer ; 
The swift wind drove the thunder blast, 
The watery deluge poured as fast ; 



32 BLANCHE. 

My soul was in the scene — the cloud 
Was like its own funereal shroud ; 
But Blanche was desolate — her heart 
In storm and tempest took no part, 
For o'er it had the death wind blown ; 
One living thing was left alone, 
And that was little ; and she tried 
Her tell-tale blush of guilt to hide. 
Her boy lay sick upon her breast ; 
She sang him to his troubled rest, 
Then turned her lustrous eyes on me 
One moment — one — and I was free 
From anger and from deadly hate. 
One moment — 'twas a heavenly state 
Of joy, and peace, so calm, so sweet, 
I ne'er expect again to meet 
On earth ; — I say, I did forget 
The pride that was not conquer 'd yet — 
And I spake gentle words, and she 
Smiled gladly in her ecstasy 
Of bliss. I felt within my hair 
Her fingers light as summer air ; 
I felt her bosom heave upon 
The breast of her beloved one ; 



BLANCHE, 83 

I heard her words — -" Oh, wilt thou not 

Let all — all — all — be now forgot? 

Oh ! as thou hop'st for peace in heaven, 

May not thy Blanche be yet forgiven ?" 

I know not if the damn'd in hell 

Struggle as fiercely or as well ; — 

I stirr'd not — breath'd not — liv'd not then 

Was Blanche, dear Blanche, my own again ? 

Oh, Heaven, the bliss ! — but in my heart 

I felt my wounded feelings start ; 

There was one love that might not be, 

There lay the thing 1 could not see, — • 

Ah ! Blanche mistook her pleading power — 

She wrought her ruin in that hour. 

She handed me her child — 'twas o'er — 

I could contain myself no more ; 

And with a word of bitter scorn, 

I hurl'd from me her eldest born 

And only child, — the spell was broke, 

Tliough not a word of grief she spoke. 

And when we parted, 'twas to meet 

Before God's fearful judgment-seat. 



34 BLANCHE, 



VIII . 

I'm fain to think that infant fair 

Is where God's holy angels are : 

He died before another day 

Had track'd o'er earth its golden way. 

I would have left that hope to throw 

Its balm o'er Blanche's heart of woe, 

But whither she soon pass'd to dwell 

They know the truth of such things well. 

Men spake to me of how she died — 

They chid my selfish, cruel pride. 

I bore their pity as their scorn — 

The first act left my heart forlorn. 

And when I stood beside her bier, 

I might have shed a straggling tear. 

But that was all — and 'twas for her 

When I was first her worshipper — 

'Twas not for Blanche when she had mven 

Her hand away — though never riven 

I knew her heart had been from me ; 

I bless'd the day that set her free. 

For well I knew those thoughts would burn 

Till dust should to its dust return. 



BLANCHE. 35 

I say my heart was broke at first — 
Death came — 'twas but the mock'ry burst ! 
I know not but it made me glad ; 
I grew more cahn, if not less sad, 
For now that scorn had work'd its will, 
A spirit in me lov'd her still. 

IX . 

Ye cannot read upon my face .^ 

One sign of that consuming trace, 

The fire beneath my fever'd brow 

Expir'd, and all is ashes now ; 

'Tis like the sculptur'd stillness death 

Bequeaths the form with parted breath, 

The rigid, beautiful repose 

That will o'er fiercest struggles close. 

And ye have mark'd me turn away 

From scenes where all was blithe and gay. 

And muse apart — or if I chance 

Gaze on the phantoms of the dance, 

'Twas only as a worshipper, 

To seek once more the form of her. 

This heart's first idol and its last. 

On whom its all of love was cast. 



36 BLANCHE. 

I cannot see what I have seen, 
I cannot be what I have been, 
Yet oh ! if I seem calm — say not 
My heart is cold — I've ne'er forgot 
That with'ring flame, and first must die, 
And meet once more must Blanche and I. 

1842. 



DREAMS 



" Sleep, 

But a continuance of enduring thought, 

. . . . these eyes but close 
To look within." Byron's Manfred. 



Dreams, bright dreams ! 
Visions sent on the wings of sleep, 
Gladd'ning the universe, where do ye steep 
Your robes in glory, that thus ye wear 
The lustre and beauty of uppermost air ? 
In the brightness that decketh the rainbow's hues ? 
Where light is spangling the fragrant dews ? 
Do ye bathe where the flash of stars grows dim 
In the kindling glow of the cherubim ? 

That thus ye are sent 

From the firmament 



38 DREAMS. 



To lighten the heart with your bursting gleams, 
In dreams, bright dreams ? 



Dreams, bright dreams ! 
Do spirits that dwell in light and song 
Breathe melody out as they glide along ? 
Have they a power to catch and fling 
Their notes o'er the slumb'ring heart's harp-string ? 
Or where the anthems of Paradise 
Are floating along in the far, far skies, — 
Bring they from thence some wild'ring strain 
To swell o'er the human heart again, 

As an Angel's shout 

Were pouring it out, 
And heaven is opening, the rapt soul deems, 

In dreams, brisht dreams ? 



Dreams, bright dreams ! 
Ay ! to my heart ye are simpler things : 
Love is the light of your radiant wings — 
Ye are the pulse of the quiet heart 
Beating in slumber, new hope to impart ! 



DREAMS. 89 

Fancies, they call you ; but oh, ye are not ! 

Tokens are ye of a happier lot, 

Visions of what the heart would be, 

Yearnings for that which is pure and free. 
When the soul goes forth 
From the clogs of earth, 

And its own pure thought is the light that seems 
Of dreams, bright dreams. 



Dreams, sad dreams ! 
Visions sent on the wings of sleep, 
Dark'ning the universe, where do ye steep 
Your robes in blackness, that thus ye come 
To throw your gloom o'er the quiet home ? 
In the fount where the Night-God dips his wings ? 
In the still, dark tomb of decaying things ? 
Have ye some strange, mysterious power 
To rise, and dart in the midnight hour. 

From the death-weeds rank 

In the church-yard dank, 
Round the soul of the sleeper, your frightful beams, 

In dreams, sad dreams ? 



40 DREAMS. 



Dreams, sad dreams f 
Doth night bring fear to the heart when laid 
Calmly to rest in its folding shade ? 
Is there a spirit of woe to bear, 
A shriek of terror, a load of care ? 
Do strange words mix with the light winds' sigh ? 
Passeth the wizard of toraient by ? 
In silence and darkness doth there dwell 
Some fiend, let loose fi'om the bars of Hell, 

That hovers around 

In the gloom profound, 
And horribly shrieks through the fitful gleams 

Of dreams, sad dreams ? 

VI. 

Dreams, sad dreams I 
Ye are no spell of a wizard hand. 
Ye rise not up at a fiend ^s command ; 
When slumber falls on a guilty breast, 
Ye are the pulse of his heart's unrest. 
Fancies, they call you ; but oh, ye are not ? 
Shadows are ye of some damning spot 



DREAMS. 41 



In life, that haunteth the stricken soul ; 

And the voices of woe that over it roll, 
As a demon rout 
Were pouring them out, 

Are but the beatings within, that he deems 
Are dreams, sad dreams. 

1844. 



3* 



MEDITATIONS 

IN THE MAMMOTH CAVE, KENTUCKY. 



" Sit mihi fas — 
Pandere res alta terra el caligine mersas." 

ViR. JEn. vi. 266-7. 

By your leave, sirs, I'll talk a little about this subterranean world. 

Translation. 



Stupendous cavern ! I have read of wonders, 

Of Pyramids sky-kissing, grottoes, and 
Stale mummies that have overslept the thunders 

Of battling armies, of time's ruthless hand 
Touching them lightly : these are strange — but tJioii / 
When wert thou built ? by whom ? for what ? and how ? 

II . 

Perhaps thou art as old as Time ; — then say. 
Didst hear the stars sing, and the angels shout ? 

When God said " light," did one bright wand'ring ray 
Straggle where now I stand ? Wert thou scooped out 



MEDITATIONS. 43 

Before or after thou wert swinging through 
Nothing's abode, as stars swing in the blue ? 

Ill . 

If 'twas before, 'twould be quite interesting 

To know a little more about that state 
Of hotch-potch, j^clept chaos ; but divesting 

Thoughts from my mind of ante-primal date, 
I'll leave such inquiries to the " dark ages " 
Where they belong, or for less silent sages. 

If after, tell me, was thy form a freak 

Of nature, and as late wiseacres say. 
Did some great river (Green, perhaps,) o'erbreak 

Its banks, and force through thee its thund'ring way ? 
Where, then, could it have possibly got out ? 
And where all gone to ? for I stand in doubt. 



Well, canst thou tell ? Paugh ! 'twould be speculation— 
Thou know'st of things above ground, less than I ; 

For I'm convinced, (and this is plain narration,) 
Thou never saw'st the great, free, boundless sky ,* 



44 MEDITATIONS. 

What dost thou think then, of the pale-faced people 
That sail thy " Styx," and stare up " Gorin's" steeple ? 

VI . 

Have brighter beings ever sported through 
Thy winding halls, and lighter voices rung ? 

Have fairies danced in " Cleaveland Avenue,'' 

SkimmM swifter thy dark waves and sweeter sung ? 

Have they (I reckon not) " Mat's "* back bestrid. 

And got a ducking, as your Poet did ? 

VII. 

" O ! ilia messorum !" could they eat 

The grapes that cluster on thy star-lit walls ? 

" Non erat nasus illis," if as sweet 

They deem'd their flowers as those that deck our halls. 

Perhaps I am mistaken, and the hue 

Supplied the place of luscious sweetness too. 

VIII . 

Perhaps, too, I'm mistaken in their shape. 
And awful forms inhabit this abode, 

" 3Iat " and " Steph " are the names of the Cave guides. 



MEDITATIONS. 45 

Chimeras dire — fiends that have made their 'scape 

From human eye — from all but conscience' goad. — 
Say, are our fears the echoes that they fling 
Back — back on the unsullied heart's harp-string ? 

IX . 

Well, even I have had my feelings stirr'd, 

If not above ground, certainly in thee ; 
I've held my breath until the sound was heard 

Of rocks, our guide threw into the " Dead Sea," 
And stared to see the lighted taper hit 
The water in the " Bottomless " dark " Pit." 

X . 

I've trod the " Gothic Avenue " throughout. 

Come to the " Lover's Leap," but didn't take it, 

Fill'd the whole " Chapel " with an echoing shout, 
A huge st alagmite saw, and tried to break it, 

'Tis called the '' Pillar of" (his name is one 

That will not rhyme) Jove and Alcmena's son. 

X I . 

I've gazed into thy chamber, set with stars, 
And thought of brighter eyes I left at home ; 



46 MEDITATIONS. 

Have pluck'd thy gems no human polish mars, 

Have sail'd thy " Styx," and look'd up every dome ; 
Have drunk the water from thy sparkling fountains, 
And sat down tired upon thy " Rocky Mountains." 

XII. 

I've quaffd Madeira in '• Queen Mary's Bower," 
And eat cold chicken — (this is quite romantic) — 

Picked up in " Cleaveland Avenue " a flower — 
Listen'd to doggerel that run me frantic, 

Until, at length, ('twas natural, you'll say,) 

My feelings found an outbreak in this way. 

XIII . 

Oh ! thou hast seen earth's paragons — the eye 

Of starlike beauty has been lit in thee. 
And forms of angel slightness have pass'd by — 

Say, was thy great heart beating not to see 
Creatures like these — such as have often trod 
Thy " winding ways " — brows touch'd with light from 
God? 

XIV . 

Have such gone down in thee, and to the light — 
The common smile of heaven — returned no more ? 



MEDITATIONS. 47 

Oh, God ! I shudder — in intensest night 

Have spirits wander'd to the far, far shore 
Of dim Eternity, and in thine awful keeping 
Are earth's most beautiful and godlike sleeping ? 

XV . 

'Tis said, (I think the story may be so — 

'Tis very likely, and " Steph " swore he did,) 

Some wanderer found a dozen years ago. 
Or more, perhaps, within this cavern hid, 

Two men, all shrivell'd — perfect Indian dummies, 

As stale and time-worn as Egyptian mummies. 



Oh, that I knew their history. Canst thou tell ? 

Say, were they friends or foes ? What is the tale 
Of their life's sufferings? By what magic spell 

Lured, came they hither ? how grew pale 
Beneath Death's touch ? — hold, probably you knew 'em 
Not, when their hearts leap'd glad, and blood run through 
'em. 

XVII . 

Why ask ? — I know those sealed lips have press'd 
The cheek of beauty — hopes, fond hopes have beat 



48 MEDITATIONS. 

Within those dusky bosoms, — what's the rest 

Of life ? a little mingling of the sad and sweet ; — 
This they have had — what mortal hath them not ? 
They died ! and now their mem'ry is forgot. 

XVIII. 

Oh ! for some voice whose all-pervading power 
Might fill my wonderings ; can there be no sound 

To break the stillness of this awful hour, 

And stir the blackness of this gloom profound ? 

Here on my bended knee, all eye — all ear, 

I list, and pray — Spirit of Darkness, hear ! 

XIX . 

Vain — vain ; no sound ! within these gloomy halls 
God's fearful secret-keeper, silence, dwells 

Unbroke, save where the dripping pebble falls, 
The cascade tumbles, or the fountain wells ; 

Voices that speak not — sounds that seem to make 

Thy deepmost stillness deeper stillness take. 

XX . 

Palace that seem'st eternal — yet shall I, 
Mortality's weak worm, behold thy fall, 



MEDITATIONS. 4*^) 



When thrones shall crumble, men in terror fly, 

And darkness spread its universal pall — 
Then to the quakings of that trumpet-thunder 
Shall eveiy vaulted dome be rent asunder. 



1844. 



THE STORM- SPIRIT. 



• DWELL in the depths of the sultry air, 

I sail on the hurrying cloud 
O'er valleys and mountain-tops jagged and bare, 

When the thunder-peal sounds loud ; 
And the eagle, alit on a shiver'd peak. 

With an eye on the dashing spray, 
When he hears the rush of my pinions sweep 

Is off with a shriek — and away ! 

Away, away ! but I follow him there. 

As through heaven's blue vault he springs. 
Till I leave the conqueror stricken and bare, 

With the dust on his royal wings. 
He may gaze on the sun with a tireless eye, 

He may sport with the torrent's foam. 
But woe to his plumes when the whirlwinds fly 

From the depths of their pent-up home. 



THE STORM-SFIRIT. 51 

I dwell in the caves of the upper deep. 

And the clouds my nurslings are, 
And all the night I watch o'er their sleep 

By the light of some lonely star ; — 
And I laugh while the beautiful skyey tent 

Of the heaven is black'ning o'er, 
And the dark pavilion of clouds is rent 

By the thunder's sullen roar. 



1 summon the winds from their dungeons lone 

To sweep o'er the darken'd earth, 
I am hovering aye where the great trees moan 

When the hurricane's tramp goes forth ; 
And on the sea like a brooding fiend 

I silently sit and swing. 
Till lur'd by the sighs of the cavern'd wind, 

Or a glance of the lightning's wing. 



Then over the land, and the streams, and sea, 

I sweep with my stormy train, 
And loud and fierce as the wild waves be 

Is the mariner's cry of pain, 



52 THE STORM-SPIRIT. 

As I hover awhile o'er the foundering bark, 

And shiver the tott'ring mast, 
And hollow the place, with my pinions dark, 

Of their graves as I hurry past. 

I lead the clouds on their solemn march 

As back to their lair they go, 
And I rear the bright triumphal arch 

Of the " million-color'd bow ;" 
For I steal the rays as they fall askance 

From the sun through the glist'ning trees. 
And each beautiful tint that is there by chance, 

I catch, and I paint with these. 

Oh, the dark Storm-Spirit is every where ! 

I bask in the torrid glow. 
And I rear for the Ice- King his palace bare 

Of the everlasting snow ; 
And wherever the foot of man hath been 

O'er the land, and streams, and sea. 
And the viewless caves of the air, I w^een. 

Have been trod by the storm and me. 

1841. 



GHOSTS. 



We are all ghosts." 

Sartor Resartus. 



When the spirit's eylids open, 
Outward vestments fall away, 

And it sees its spirit-brothers 

Stalk out from their liomes of clay. 

Every thing is then a vision — 
Every thing a pallid ghost. 

Spectral shapes are onward leading 
Nothing but a spectre host. 

Sprites are piping faint hosannas, 
Ghosts are beating phantom drums, 

And, a formless banner waving, 
Lo, an apparition comes ! 



54 GHOSTS. 

Flitting most fantastically, 

Wreathing in a vacuous rounds 

Go the outlines dim and curious 
Of a substance never found. 

Fruits that look'd all glorious, golden, 
Shadows have to ashes press'd ; 

Phantom shapes of men are dangling 
On a passion phantom-breast. 

Spectres gibber in the dimness, 

Scraping dust that looks like gold ; 

Images of women follow. 

With their features wan and cold. 

For not on a human shoulder, 

Skull-cramp'd, stay this spirit throng, 

But through pores of earth and ocean, 
Move, a thousand million strong. 

Now they flutter like a forest, 

Joy is beating his reveil ; 
Comes, like silence settling after, 

Sorrow's hush of plaintive wail. 



GHOSTS. 55 



Through a portal vague and vasty, 
Up the shadowy concourse go, 

And these strange words are the only 
Pulses echoed from their flow : — 

" Mystery in mystery ending — 
Little shaping into Most, 
Parts for ever re-uniting 
Of the one Essential Ghost ! 

" There is nothing of the earthly, 
Save these Eidola of God, 
Looking out through phantom- faces, 
O'er the Infinite and Broad !" 

1846. 



THE VOICE OF DAYS 



And I said, Days should speak" 

Job xxxii. 7. 



How beautiful ! 
Come hither, fair one, whose bright eye to me 
Is like a summer landscape, and whose love 
Flows like the voice of prayer. Look, how the moon 
Treads the bright azure with her " silver feet," 
And stars come out and sing, and gilded clouds 
Do wave their banners, and the dark woods stir 
As they were wing'd with joy ! 
How eloquent is beauty ! every star 
That decks the brow of eve, each fiov/er that lifts 
Its meek eye up to God — each gorgeous cloud 
That bathes in sunshine — every painted bird — 
The rainbow's teints — the glory, like a star, 
Of woman's beauty — every fairy hue 



THE VOICE OF DAYS. 57 

That hath been garner'd in the mighty soul 
Of the wide world, are full of eloquence. 

And they do never perish : as our years 
Rise on the surge of being and are lost, 
Their echoes die not. Every gentle breeze — 
Each wave that leaps in light — each voice of love — 
Yea, and the " audible stillness " of the night 
Do force them back, and list'ning to their tones, 
We heed not time, but make our lives a part 
Of that we hear, and in the eloquent thoughts 
Of our rapt spirits dwell. 

We mete not time by years. 
The blight they bring our hearts, or the calm joy, 
Is our chronometer. To each bad man 
Their note is but the beating of his heart, 
When all its tide is lava, and the swell 
Of its tumultuous heavings hurries back 
O'er days of sin. The good man heeds them not ; 
But every flower, and cloud, and laughing stream, 
The pomp of Autumn — every passing year^^ — 
And change, and time are shadowing forth the hues 
Of their own beauteous order in his heart. 
And bearing him beyond the reach of years. 

1843. 

4 



THERE ARE MOMENTS IN LIFE. 



There are moments in life of most exquisite sadness, 
When the leaves of the heart close around its per- 
fume, 

And alone in its triumph o'er passion and madness 
It asks not — it sighs not for else save the tomb. 

And 'tis not when we mourn o'er the lovely departed. 
When our anguish is deepest — these moments arise. 

But they wave their dark wing o'er the gay and light- 
hearted, 
Like a cloud flitting over the sunniest skies. 

As the traveller through deserts, when evening hath found 
him 

Beside some oasis indulging in joy, 
Grows sick when he hears the Bedouins surround him, 

And silent waits only their time to destroy — 



THERE ARE MOMENTS IN LIFE. 59 

Thus, whenever we reach a glad spot in existence, 
A spot that seems freest from sorrow and pain. 

Our fears, like those Arabs, encamp in the distance, 
And our hearts become silent and sadden'd again. 

They come — those sad moments — when hope seems the 
brightest. 

To cast their dark hue o'er the lips that we love. 
They steal o'er our bosoms when bounding the lightest, 

And breathe " There's no joy unalloy'd but above." 

Oh, who has not bow'd 'neath their lone, lone dominion, 
Till his heart lay all hush'd in his passionless breast. 

And forgetful of earth he hath yearn'd for the pinion 
Of a dove to convey him away to his rest ! 
1845. 



ODE 

ON THE DEATH OF ANDREW JACKSON 



Dead ! do the coward and the brave 

Fall then at length as low ? 
Is all of glory but the grave — 

Its pomp, its pride, its show ? 
And is this he — the council star — 
The thunderbolt of blacken'd war — 

And hath he perish'd ? — no ! 
His sun is gone, but left its rays, 
We dwell in their immortal blaze. 



A pall that shadows earth and sky, 
When earth and sky are brigh 

A wave that quickly sparkles by 
And vanishes in light, 



DEATH OF ANDREW JACKSON. 61 

A sphere eclipsed, a star grown dim — - 
We mourn the change, but not thus him, 

Who, from his lofty height, 
And peerless thought by men before, 
Hath died to take but one step more. 

Ill . 

Yet, man of battles, hero, say, 

Failed not thine own heart 
In journeying that lonely way. 

How didst thou act thy part ? 
No shield — no sword — no flag — no plume — 
Methinks thou couldst have met thy doom, 

Nor felt one terror start, 
Had these been there, and the hurrah 
Been heard in that relentless war. 

IV . 

Ah, no ! the friends that saw thee fall, 

Saw not thy soul give way ; 
Chieftain ! 'twas worth thy triumphs all, 

To fade in such a ray ; 
Laden with honor and with years. 
Thou left behind thee all the tears 



62 DEATH OF ANDREW JACKSON. 

Shed on thy setting day, 
While gladly to their place of rest, 
Thy weary footsteps onward press'd. 



V . 

A shade hath settled on thy lips, 

Nor on thy lips alone ; 
Each star is veiled in dim eclipse 

That on our banner shone. 
Bead / hear ye not that fearful sound ? 
'Twill echo Freedom's area round, 

And murmur 'neath the throne 
Of her, who sits the " Ocean Queen," 
To wake her once-mock'd empire-dream. 

VI. 

Who comes to gaze upon that face, 
That smile once more to greet ? 

What ! no warm pressure — no embrace — 
Is it thus heroes meet ? 

'Tis he from yonder sister star 

That shines above the wreck of war, 
In virgin brightness sweet ; 



DEATH OF ANDREW JACKSON. 63 

Giv'st him no words of praise to keep ? 
Too late ! brave Texan, turn and weep. 

VII . 

Go plunge into the battle strife, 

In peace adorn thy name, 
If yet thy little space of life 

May yield thee such a fame. 
Where is the hero, of what age, 
Who such a boundless heritage 

Of glory e'er could claim ? 
Call up earth's mighty dead, and say 
Ere thou departest — who are they ? 

VIII. 

Not thou, who from a Northern home 

Thy ruthless pathway trod 
In vengeance to Eternal Rome, 

The appointed " Scourge of God," 
Vain compare ! though thy vassals bring 
The crowns of many a captur'd king. 
And hurl them on the sod ; 
Or, as thou bad'st, Busentius turn, 
To form thy everlasting urn. 



64 DEATH OF ANDREW JACKSON. 

IX . 

Not thou, destroyer, infidel 

In all save thine own lust, — 
Thou knewest not how deep a hell 

Yearn'd for its loathsome trust. 
Thou deem'dst not in thy peerless height. 
Thy star could set in such a night. 

Till wriggling in the dust, 
Thou saw'st good Brutus standing o'er. 
Thy friend no less — his country's more. 

X . 

Nor thou, Gaul's glory and her shame, 

The mighty and the mean. 
Could e'en Marengo's blaze of fame 

Light up thy closing scene ? 
Mumbling thy prison bars, to guess 
'Twere vain, how in thy wretchedness, 

Did all thy glory seem — 
Man-mountain ! cast into life's flood 
To turn its peaceful waves to blood. 

XI. 

In vain — -turn thou to Freedom's land. 
Earth's noble dwell not here 



DEATH OF ANDREW JACKSON. 65 

Where despots wield a flaming brand 
O'er slaves that crouch and fear ; 

Turn thou to gaze upon one gem 

That glitters in our diadem, 
As stainless as 'tis dear ; 

Worth all the gems that e'er have shone ; 

Till Jackson's death, that blazed alone ! 

XII. 

Raise then no pile — he long'd to rest 

'Neath Freedom's hallow'd sod. 
His dust — here in the glorious West, 

We leave it with its God. 
Let his eternal column be 
The smile that lingers round the Free, 

Their area bright and broad ; 
He living spurn'd the tomb of kings — 
Why mock his memory with such things ? 

XIII . 

Pause now — that name will ever be 

A thunderbolt to thrones, 

That kings their littleness may see 

Who build on human bones, 
4* 



66 DEATH OF ANDREW JACKSON. 

Who trample into glorious birth 
The slumbering hei'oes of the earth, 
That knelt in sighs and groans, 
Nor deem'd before how weak are they, 
The " Pagod-things " that men obey. 



'Twill live the wonder of each age, 

Not as earth's great have done, 
A Christian, hero, or a sage, 
But as these all in one ; 
And coming years will love to blend 
In union until time shall end 

Jackson and Washington ; 
While in the senseless clay they rot, 
Shall stupid tyrants be forgot. 

1845. 



TIME. 



The Desolater desolate ! 
The Victor overthrown ! 

Byron. 



Oh, mighty, tri-crown'd King ! 
Where are the limits of thy vast domain ? 
Ages that seem'd eternal in their spring 

Lie buried 'neath thy reign. 

Kingdoms that proudly stood, 
And look'd defiance in thine iron brow ; 
Sages that counsel'd nations, and the good 

Alike, where are they now ? 

Hearts that beat high with life, 
And bards that rous'd them by their words of flame, 
Warriors that shrunk not from the battle strife, 

When red destruction came — 



08 TIME. 

Swept by thy rushing hand 
To infinite oblivion — not a trace 
E'en of their ruin hast thou sutfer'd stand 

To mark that ruin's place. 

Gone is Assyria's pride, 
Mock'd are the dreamings of the old Chaldee, 
And Greece that startled nations when she died, 

A corpse of glory — see I 

What countless thousands fell 
When stoop'd the lightning of the Roman sword ! 
But Roman valor that wast erst a spell, 

Is a forgotten word. 

Over all kings proud King ! 
Where are the limits of thy vast domain ? 
The Past is thine — though from its ashes spring 

A Phoenix o'er thy reign. 

Thine is the Present — thou 
Wavest thy sceptre and the mortal flow. 
Backward, with paleness on each vanquish'd brow. 

Through thy dim portals go. 



TIME. ^^ 



The Commonwealths that stand 
Upon the ruins of departed thrones 
Shook to their centre by thy mighty hand, 

Startle kings' sleeping bones. 

And as thy years wax old, 
Shall new Republics struggle into birth, 
But thou shalt set thy foot upon the mould 

Of all that spring of earth. 

Oh, mighty, tri-crown'd King ! 
Is there no limit to thy vast domain 1 
Dethroned one ! 1 see thy victims spring 

To quickening life again ! 

Empyreal and pure, 
O'er thy forgotten splendor burns a throne, 
While circling round it, ages that endure 

Make thy lost ones their own. 

And to each human soul 
Thy being cradled in his pulse's beat. 
Whene'er its solemn measures cease to roll 

That D-reat reward shall meet — 



70 TIME. 

If it hath nobly stood, 
And battled for the truth, nor mourn'd thy sway, 
Lived for great purposes, and firmly good 

Waited the perfect day. 

Up, up to duty then ! 
Enduring patience-work will soon be o'er, 
And stricken from the fellowship of men. 

Time is, for us, no more. 
1845. 



SEEK FLOWERS. 



Spring doth all she can, I trow ; 
She brings the bright hours, 
She weaves the sweet flowers, 
She dresseth her bowers, 
For all below." 

Barry Cornwall. 



Seek flowers. I know that the Violet's eye 

Is peeping out at this clear hlue sky, 

I know that the Hyacinth's holding up 

In maidenly sheen, its blue-lipp'd cup, 

I know that on yonder water's brink 

The wild Anemone stoops to drink ; 

They have waited the coming of Spring's glad hours, 

And I know they are here. — Seek flowers, seek flowers. 

Seek flowers, — for I hear the South- wind's shout 
Calling his beautiful sweethearts out j 



72 SEEK FLOWERS. 

" Jove !" how they blush when he bends to sip 
The love that lies on their velvet lip ; 
All day he lingers and bathes his wings 
In the balm of these radiant, sinless things, 
And at eve, like the hush of the blessed God, 
Sings them to rest on the quiet sod. 

Dwellers fair in each greenwood glen. 
Bringing delight to the children of men, 
I love to think how the maid will twine 
Your radiance bright in her hair's sunshine. 
Of the joy that will thrill the dear young child 
When he catches your forms in the meadow wild, 
How the aged that bend 'neath affliction's rod 
Will smile upon you and bless their God. 

Early visitants — fresh spring flowers. 
Ye bring the promise, in brighter hours, 
That the fragrant Orchis and flaunting Rose 
Will tarry with us to the summer's close. 
That the Aster will come, when days grow brief. 
To throw its smile o'er the fallen leaf, 
That when airs grow keen, by the frozen rill 
Some bolder trembler will linger still. 



SEEK FLOWERS. 73 

Girl of my heart ! would you know a gift 

That will ever my fainting spirits lift ? 

(It may be weakness, but list, thou shalt hear, 

I have never spoke false to thy earnest ear,) 

Bind me a wreath where thy love shall lie 

With the fragrance, after its splendors die, — 

There is no gift of the seasons' hours 

That touches my heart like the gift of flowers. 

1845. 



I WOULD NOT LEARN FORGETFULNESS. 



" The Past ! ah, we owe it a tenderer debt. 
Heaven's own sweetest mercy is not to forget." 

Miss Landon. 

I AvotJLD not learn forgetfulness ; the Past tcx) bright 
hath been, 

For me to throw oblivion's pall on every vanish'd scene : 

The bright, blue face of heaven, the breeze that used to 
play, 

With its unseen fingers in my hair, through all the live- 
long day, 

The glad and blessed sunshine that seemed the smile of 
God, 

And the flowers that sat like diamonds around the path I 
trod, 

The fair-eyed dawn, the glowing day, the sunlit clouds 
of even. 

That hung like wings of angels o'er the battlements of 

hp>aven — 



I WOULD NOT LEARN FORGETFULNESS. 75 

I would not learn forgetfulness ; I would rather learn 

the art 
Of binding all these golden links more closely round my 

heart ! 



I would not learn forgetfulness ; though I've sunder'd 

many a tie, 
I could not bear to lose sweet friends that only droop and 

die; 
Our family chain hath perished ! but it seems not thus 

to me, 
For the world but count the living links, and they are 

only three ; 
The rest they say are gone, but I think they're with me 

still, 
Their voice is in the summer breeze, and in the tink- 
ling rill, 
In the mellow hush of evening — in the solemn hour of 

night, 
They seem to hover o'er me all radiant and bright. 
And whether they are here or not, I do not — do not know, 
But I would not learn forgetfulness ; for mem'ry makes 

it so. 



76 I WOULD NOT LEARN FORGETFFLNESS. 

I would not learn forgetfulness ; oh, I could not bear 

my lot, 
If the woof the Past has woven should be broken and 

forgot, 
If o'er the paths of manhood where I daily trudge along, 
Some dear remembrance did not rise and wake my heart 

to song, , 

If when the star-eyed flow'rets spring up around my way, 
I did not sometimes think of one as beautiful as they, 
If when the skies bend o'er me with such a mellow hue, 
I did not gaze into an eye of just as sweet a blue, 
Let those whose hearts are withered sing, " Oh, teach me 

to forget !" 
My life hath been too golden, I cannot sing thus yet. 



I would not learn forgetfulness ; the spell that mem'ry 

flings 
Across my heart is like the sweep of angels' silken 

wings ; 
'Tis of summer clouds and sunshine — of the songsters 

and the breeze. 
Of the silver moon and starlight — of the blue wave lit by 

these ; 



I WOULD NOT LEARN FORGETFULNESS. 77 

'Tis of a gentle maiden in her beauty and her pride, 
That like a guardian angel sits ever by my side, — 
I never tasted sorrow — let those who have complain, 
I would gladly number over those halcyon days again ; 
1 would not learn forgetfulness ; I would rather learn 

the art 
Of binding all these golden links more closely round my 

heart. 

1844. 



LINES WRITTEN IN A STORM 



Bid thy destroying angel pass, 

We crouch beneath its wing of fear, 

Let thy avenging thunders, God ! 

Stoop harmless round thy children dear. 

We are an humble family band. 
We have no lofty hope or aim, 

We are content, although our praise 
May never fill the ear of fame. 

We cannot tell Thee all we have — 

The blessings each new moment brings ; 

Health, or if sickness come, thy dove - 
Sent down with healing on his wings. 

Wealth, not such as the world would call, 
We are not rich in gold or soil. 

But we have hearts to work, and Thou 
Dost smile upon our humble toiL 



^INES WRITTEN IN A STORM. 79 

Friends, our full hearts may never saj* 
What garner'd stores of love they hold ; 

Thou hast not doom'd them yet to bear 
The treach'ry of the false and cold. 

Hopes, Father, Thou dost know all these, 
For we have hung them on thy heart, — 

Regard from all the good and wise, 
And tremblings for " the better part." 

Bid thy destroying angel pass, 

Let thy white wing descend and keep 

Its shadow close around our store — 
Guard us. Almighty ! while we sleep. 

Oh sweet-soul'd God! one spirit star 
Hath issued from thy radiant breast, 

And from her dreamful throne, the moon 
With mildest glory floods the west ! 

The whirlwinds trail their banners home, — 
Smile out all heaven's fair company — 

Lie down ; ye see the morrow morn 
Who dwell beneath this roof with me ! 



1846. 



TO A STAR. 



Fair wanderer, that through yonder blue 
Thy silent course for aye hast trod, 

Thou'rt kindling now, as thy first hue 
Fell burning from the hand of God. 

Undimm'd — unwasted — though thy race 
With earth's primeval course began ; 

Time blots thee not from Heaven's face, — 
Fond watcher o'er the hopes of man. 

Still the same look thy coming wears 

To the young child that drinks thy light. 

And to the sire whose rev 'rend hairs 
Thou tingest with a softer white. 

Fair orb, what diff'rent eyes will be 

Turn'd on thy face ere morning's dawn ! 

What joys, what sorrows wilt thou see. 

What bursting hopes — what pleasures gone ! 



TO A STAR. 81 

He, as the sage of Chaldea's lore, 

Who reads thy bright page as a book, 

This night, to add to learning's store, 
Will bend on thee an earnest look. 

He, who beholds thee as the eye 

Of her on whom his love is flung, 
Will call up tender scenes gone by, 

And words that to his heart have clung. 

The watcher by the bed of pain 

Will sadly view thy kindling fire, 
And turn, and turn his gaze again. 

Glad when thy trembling beams expire. 

And there will be who lift the eye 

Of warm devotion unto thee, 
And muse some simple song as I, 

To lure the heart from misery. 

Or, in your brightness as you tread, 

Alike through calm and storm, your way, 

Will feel strong hopes around him shed. 
And bend him on his knees, and pray, 
5 



82 TO A STAR. 

Almighty Father ! as yon star 
Be this vain life in thy command, 

Oh ! keep it safe 'mid passion's war, 
To blaze at last in thy right hand. 

1844. 



SONNET. — DESPONDENCY. 



I FEEL a weariness of mortal life — 

A shaking, almost, of my trust in God ; 
Is this the harvest of my years of strife, 

To keep from dying what I've cast abroad ? 
If I have err'd when that I deem'd was given 

To me a message from on high to speak. 
Or if the thoughts that in my breast have striven, 

Have been trick'd out in language all too weak, 
I know not. Merciful God ! my offspring lie 

Poison'd with venom from the snakes that crawl 
Around their path, while, as the pelican, I 

Revive with heart-blood, and sustain them all ; 
And I am weary in my youth of years, 
Of struggling ever against doubts and fears. 

1846. 



SONNET. — FAITH 



My senses never lie amort in sleep, 

But then my soul builds up an image fair, 
Round which the wings of Seraphim that sweep. 

Make voiceful symphonies of the ambient air ; 
And like a wond'rous bark indu'd with mind, 

It floats in glory o'er the effulgent tides, 
And spurning as Phseacian ships the wind, 

Right onward to its blissful haven glides. 
A nd so I know this is my bark of Faith, 

Seeking the anchorage of God's calm heart, 
Convoy'd by angels, watchful of its freight, 

And gliding safely to the heavenly mart. 
Thus while " Death's brother " holds my clay below 
My soul doth to its better portion go. 

1845. 



NIGHT 



Send down thy milder presence, God ! 

Let dreamy silence wrap our earth, 
And brightly o'er the fainting sod. 

Oh, bid thy glorious Night go forth ! 

How beautiful ! Heaven's golden door 
Stands open — in their jewell'd crown, 

Treading yon blue Empyrean's floor, 
The company of stars look down. 

A gauze-like veil yon hills enfold, 
Spangled with rainbow atoms — all 

Seems like some glorious tale of old, 
That comes at Memory's pensive call. 

Caressingly the wings of Sleep 

Float through the liquid stillness round ; 
A sense of soothing, blessed, deep. 

Distils o'er all the weary ground. 



86 



The wood-bird, in his little nest, 

Feels the soft presence on his wings, 

And hearts that sighed for heaven and rest 
In dreams enjoy these fancied things. 

Well hast thou come to eyes like mine, 
That fail with wakefulness and tears, 

Well do thy chasten 'd beauties shine 
Upon my manhood's stei'ner years. 

I thank thee, Father, for thy Night, 
But deeper thanks I give for Death, 

That lays its seal on mortal sight, 

Nor wakes to pain with waking breath. 

For soon, too soon, Imperial Queen, 
Wilt thou have trod thy sapphire way, 

And in the east a glimmering beam 
Will tremble on the brow of day. 

Thy fires will fade in deeper light. 
Earth's madd'nina^ voices break again 

The silver stillness, that, all night, 

Hung like a robe o'er hill and plain. 
1845. 



FAME. 



I HAVE read of a lonely castle — 
A castle that stands by the sea; 

Where the waves that beat at its rugged feet 
Do mutter dismally. 

I have read of a beauteous maiden 
That looks from that castle wall, 

With an eye of star-like brightness, 
And a figure slight and tall. 

And the morning sun now beameth 

On the castle and the wave, 
And she utters a voice that lureth 

The souls of the high and brave. 

One youth, with silken ringlets. 

Is striving up the steep, — 
God shield thee ! boy, 'tis a noble prize, 

And the wave below is deep. 



88 FAME. 

He has bow'd to the fairy maiden, 
He has touch'd that lily hand, 

And the crowd below are gazing up 
Where in close embrace they stand. 

The moonbeams now are flaunting 
The walls of that castle gray, 

And a solemn train sweeps through it, 
And the Fathers kneel and pray. 

Then I thought of another castle 
That standeth full high to see. 

Where the waters of Life around its base 
Go surging solemnly. 

And a fairy maiden is sitting there, 
With an eye on the rushing main. 

And she utters a voice that lureth 
The souls of the brave to Fame. 

They strive when the morning beameth, 
And they list her siren call. 

Nor think of the fee she claimeth 
Of the solemn tread and pall. 



FAME. 



89 



The day on the castie sleepeth, 

The fairy hath pass'd away ; 
There is nothing there but the rugged walls, 

And a train that kneel and pray. 



1844. 



5» 



ROOM! ROOM! 



" The Editor of the Baltimore Clipper, in reply to a correspondent, 
using the signature " Posterity," says, * We make room for Posterity.' " 

U. S. Gazette. 



Room in the lighted palace, 

Room at the festal board ; 
Pass round the brimming chalice, 

Let the wine be quickly pour'd ; 
Room where bright eyes are meeting, 

Where silvery-white arms glance, 
Room where fair forms go fleeting 

Through the mazes of the dance. 

Room in the halls of glory, 

Where the plume and bonnet wave ; 
Room on the page of story. 

For the noble and the brave ; 



ROOM ! ROOM ! 91 



Room on the field of battle, 

'Mid the clarion's mighty swell, 

And the drum's triumphant rattle. 
And the victor's madd'ning yell. 



Room at the bridal altar," 

Breathe quick the solemn vow, 
For the love-lip soon will falter. 

And a shadow cloud the brow ; 
=' Room at thy hearth, oh, Mother ! 

Room at thy place of prayer," 
Comes to thy heart another. 

Room for the trembler there. 



Room in each human dwelling — 

White heads drop round you — see ! 
Why stand ye thus a-knelling 1 

Turn — turn yourselves, and flee. 
Ho ! Ho ! with mirth and laughter, 

Swell on the young and brave, 
Room — (for they'll crowd in after) — 

Room in the vasty grave. 



92 ROOM I ROOM I 

Room on the lonely mountain, 

Room through the mighty earth ; 
Life's tide from every fountain 

Is swelling into birth, 
Crowd on, ye pallid faces — 

Crowd onward to the tomb ! 
> Your offspring claim your places. 

Make room for them ! make room I 

1842. 



ANGELS' VISITS. 



There are moments in life when the heart-strings awaken 

To pulses of music, as soft and as light 
As the exquisite tones by the summer wind shaken 

From the leaves of the rose, ere it closes at night. 

There are times when each idol God e'er brake before us 
Takes its seat in the soul, and is worshipp'd again, 

Till we deem even yet, in the joy that steals o'er us, 
Their warm kisses lie on our lips like a flame. 

For He took them away that their radiant whiteness 
No deeper earth-stain than those kisses should know ; 

And He lets them come back with His music and bright- 
ness, 
To lure us away from this dark world of woe. 



94 angels' visits. 

They fill up our sileuce — they hover around us — 
They walk and they watch at our side as before, 

By every old haunt where our infancy found us, 
By every pure fountain we drank from of yore. 

They breathe o'er our spirits those ravishing numbers, 
Till our hearts become weary of meaningless mirth. 

And we long to drop off our earth-garment that cumbers. 
And flee where the source of such music has birth. 

Who — who with a soul in his bosom engrafted, 

Hath ne'er felt its chords touch'd by spirits from bliss, 

Till with the sweet sense of the sound he was wafted 
Afar from a world so cold-hearted as this ! 



1846. 



FAYRIE-LAND. 



Ye have heard of a region fair and broad, 
Where the seasons know not decay, 

Where the snow-drop sits on its own sweet sod 

Beside the orchis and golden-rod, 
And the white rose blooms alway. 

Ye have heard it said, to the spirit's ear. 

There are passionate tones that call 
The dreamer back to that strange, bright sphere, 
In whose bowers, from rose-scents far and near, 
Most ravishing numbers fall. 

For those flowers, if dreaming bards say true, 

Not only are fair to see, 
But every one in its own bright hue 
Gives out its portion of music too, 

Unsyllabled though it be. 



96 FAYRIE-LAND. 

What mortals have called the asphodel, 

Singeth there a dirge, they ween. 
O'er the lov'd that down in the still grave dwell, 
And changes are rung on the wind-flower's bell. 
By the swaying of hands unseen. 

The violet too, in those blessed bowers. 

Tinkles its purple leaves, 
And the hyacinth, wet with the kiss of showers. 
Sits tremblingly there 'mid its sister flowers. 

And its exquisite music weaves. 

And passing sweet to the human heart 

Is the mystic sense they bear, 
Of love, and of hope that shall ne'er depart. 
And of joy that the channels of pleasure start 

In the soul that is linojerincp there. 

But know ye aught of that pleasant shore, — 

Doth it lie beyond the sun ? 
Oh ! let us seek it and weep no more — 
Let us press to our bosom a hoarded store 

Of those sweet flowers every one. 



FAYRIE-LAND. 97 

That land lieth not where the lote-tree throws 

Its bahn o'er our dying part ; 
It is in the sunshine tliat eacli one knows, 
It is where the whisper of kindness blows 

O'er the flowers in a quiet heart. 

There is not another Fayrie-Land, 
Save the land of Love and Youth ; — 

Flowers tinkle alone in one fair, dear hand ; 

They mourn alone where one bosom bland 
Hath sunk to its sleep in truth. 

1846. 



THE VOLUXTEERS' RETURN. 



Tktt reanalas of Ca]it. W. B. Allen, and fire other VofamtecTB who 
feU at Monterey, Meiko, were boine throng the streets erf" the city 
of Nasinifle, acfiorapaakd 1^ a long train of arfdios and dtoens. 



We welcom'd diem not with the glorious sound 

Of the drums, in a thunderous rolling. 
But our f(x>tsteps fell silent and slow on the ground. 

And the death-bell was solemnly tolling. 

Yet proud was our sorrow, we blush'd not with shame, 
For we knew that no ill could betide them ; 

And our hearts almost wished, as we thought of their fame. 
That we lay in their glory beside them. 

We thought how they press'd in the heat of the strife. 
Where the fire-wind was crisping the banners. 

And how little they reck'd of their own gallant life, 
So thev died 'mid their comrades' bc^annas. 



THE VOLUXTEERS' RETURN. 99 

We bore them in sadness — yet bright though our tears, 
Like a rainbow our triumph was beaming ; 

And we felt for the future no anguish or fears, 
Where the tempest of battle is streaming. 

And we knew in the heart of the country they lov'd 
How the fame they have won would be cherish'd ; 

And that ne'er she would think, with a spirit unmov'd, 
Of her sons who so nobly have perish'd. 

1847. 



THE YOUNG MOON ON THE SKY HAS FLUNG. 



The young moon on the sky lias /lung 

Her skirt of silver hue, 
So faint a beam, 
I almost deem 

'Twill melt back in the blue ; 
And thick stars weave a mazy tune, 

As on that blessed night, 
When dreaming o' the love aboon. 

We murmur'd our troth-plight, sweet girl. 

We murmur'd our troth-plight. 

And, dear, dear heart ! I'm linking now. 
Beneath this twilight sky, 

A pleasant rhyme 

For that sweet time 
Of hope, when you and I 



THE YOUNG MOON, ETC. 101 

Vow'd wildly, till we join'd the dead, 

That, hand in hand along. 
Our footsteps should together tread 

The dear old land of song, sweet love. 

The dear, dear land of song. 



Ah ! mind you, how, when Fate denied 

So blest a boon as this, 
We gave in tears 
The hopes of years, 

And seal'd them with a kiss ? 
One last, last word of past delight, 

As I hung on thy breast, 
One of desire we breath'd that night, 

And left to Heaven the rest, dear girl. 

And left to Heaven the rest. 



Oh, love of youth ! oh, love of soul ! 
How short its moments seem, 
And yet we feel 
Their gladness steal 
Throuivh all life's after dream. 



102 THE YOUNG MOON, ETC. 

Time has no power o'er scenes like these. 

They will not be forgot ; 
The heart has silent memories 

The lip doth utter not, dear girl. 

The lip doth utter not. 

And long, long years have pass'd since then. 

Nor care I how they flee. 
So they contain 
The short'ning chain 

That draws me back to thee : 
For we shall meet once more, and oh ! 

In that bright world of bliss. 
The clouds shall never come, that throw 

Their shadows over this, dear love. 

Their shadows over this. 

1846. 



GOD SEEN FROM THE ROCK. 



" And it shall come to pass, while my gloiy passeth by, that I 
will put thee in a cleft of the rock ; and will cover thee with my 
hand while I pass by." 

Exodus xxxiii. 22. 



When the old Seer who led the train 
Of Israel to their promis'd rest, 

From Sinai's secret commune came, 
Its glow still burning in his breast, 

God check 'd his idle words, nor gave 
His servant what he madly sought. 

But hid him in a living grave. 

Till pass'd what to behold he thought. 

Where Horeb, by the rod's stern shock, 
Was cleft for Israel's fainting band, 

Jehovah placed him ; — and the rock 
He cover 'd with his awful hand. 



104 GOD SEEN FROM THE ROCK. 

Flam'd the unveiled Brightness by, 
Kindled the mountain to its core, 

No living thing might see, nor die, 

What heaven and earth shall flee before. 

He took away his hand — the Seer 

Look'd after — goodness, peace and love, 

Like rainbows spanning forms of fear. 
Shone on his robes below, above. 

Our earth is but a cleft where God 
Doth hide His children by His hand, 

Till His majestic steps have trod 
The circuit of His empire grand. 

We but look after on the clouds 

That roll their dust around His path, 

In tenderest radiance He enshrouds 
His attributes of fear and wrath. 

His mild-eyed mercy, and His grace, 
Are all the glimpses He may give ; — 

The splendor of His Sov'reign Face 
We could not look upon, and live. 

1846. 



I NEVER AM SAD. 



i NEVER am sad — at the early dawn 

My spirit is up with the lark away, 
And it stretches its tireless pinions on 

To bathe in the light of an endless day. 
The spirit that opens the folded flowers, 
And dances along with the laughing hours. 
That flingeth the incense of morn around, 
And drinks up the dew from the fragrant ground, 
That sheds a rich balm o'er earth, and through air, 
And filleth Creation every where, 
Is near me — I float on its silvery wings 
Away, away amid vision'd things ! 
And voices are round me, — they bid me be glad ; 
Oh ! I never am sad ! I never am sad ! 

I never am sad — when the noonday sun 

Rolls through the firmament torrid and bare, 
6 



106 I NEVER AM SAD. 

And the insects awake with their drowsy hum, 

And float like a pest in the still, deep air, 
When I hardly can hear the waters trill, 
And the shadows lie sleeping on valley and hill, 
Then the spirit that watches the gath'ring cloud, 
And laughs as he wreathes its misty shroud, 
That mixes alway in the tempest's roar, 
When the thunder is tramping the mountain o'er- 
Leads forth his train ; — on the rattling blast 
I can hear him rushing free and fast. 
Though I bow in fear, yet my heart is glad, — 
Oh, I never am sad ! I never am sad ! 

I never am sad — at the starlight hour 

That follows the lapse of a golden day, 
When unseen beings exert their power. 

And call in my wandering thoughts to pray ; 
When all but the voices of Night are still, 
And the wind scarce sighs o'er the lonely hill. 
When the spirit of slumber descends on all, 
Save the fairies that trip through the elfin hall, 
And beauty that whirled in the mazy dance, 
Lies softly dreaming of young Romance — 



I NEVER AM SAD. 107 

Those beings glide by as I bend my knee, 
And they whisper their soothing words to me — 
They bid me rejoice, and their tones are glad ; 
Oh, I never am sad ! I never am sad ! 

1842. 



ALL ABOUT LOVE. 



Plague take the sex ! I've tried my best 

To put love under ban, 
There's one girl haunts my fancy still 

Do every thing I can, 
And then to court her — why, 'twere death 

To such a modest man ! 

There are so many mortal ways 

To move a woman's will. 
That hang me, if I hardly know 

Which shows the greatest skill ; 
And, having tried them all, to fail 

Is quite a bitter pill. 

First then, there's throwing all the soul 

Upon the " weaker part," 
And getting fool'd, and blubbering 



ALL ABOUT LOVE. 109 

About a broken heart, — 
But a fellow never tries this way, 
If he is very smart. 

Men oftener ply the female heart 

With stuff to suit the times, 
Some madcap fellows try to melt 

Its bars with burning rhymes, 
But far the greater portion grease 

Its locks with " oil of dimes." 

But if you're not a Poet, nor 

In cash or credit strong, 
And feel a tender care to know 

How your case will come on, — 
" I leave you here a little book 

For you to look upon." 

You'll walk out on a moonlight night, 

In summer or in spring. 
Get " out of soap," and may be ask 

Your lady-love to sing. 
And if you are a verdant youth, 

You'll hint about a ring. 



110 ALL ABOUT LOVE. 

And if she gently lets you put 

It on her finger fair, 
You'll clasp her hand, and vainly think 

Your heart is in her care ; 
The next time that you meet, your ring 

Will be — the Lord knows where ! 

She knew you loved her as a friend. 

It never cross'd her mind 
You had intentions of the sort, — 

She hopes you'll treat her kind, — - 
And so you'll walk off very like 

A man that " goes it blind." 

Your first love over, next you'll look 
For the " substantial charms," 

You'll dream of "house and lot " at home 
And IVIississippi farms, 

And seek the golden heir of these 
To clasp within your arms. 

You'll gobble down her senseless talk. 

And swear 'tis wondrous fine. 
You'll gaze upon her freckled face, 



ALL ABOUT LOVE. Ill 

And call its tints divine, — 
Till, after having popp'd the word, 
You'll find out you " can shine." 

And then you'll go with burning soul, 

To ask her stiff Papa, 
He's willing, but he thinks her cash 

Should be secured by law ; — 
You'll make no answer — but you'll feel 

Quite sick about the craw. 

You'll flirt last with some widow in 

Her second " coming out," 
Who'll keep you as to all her past 

In most delicious doubt, 
Nor be so vulgar as to let 

Her children run about. 

You'll almost fall into the net. 

But as you go away, 
The world will hint, perhaps you'll have 

Her husband's debts to pay. 
That John and Jim will plague their " Pa " 

Upon the wedding day. 



112 ALL ABOUT LOVE. 

You'll go into your room alone, 

And think of this and that, 
And wonder how it all will suit 

A purse by no means "ya^," 
Till, last, you'll think, you will not nurse 

Somebody else's brat. 

And then, like a philosopher, 

You'll calmly quit the strife. 

You'll call the girls " sour grapes," and curse 
The very name of wife, 

And crawl into your frozen bed, 
A bachelor for life ! 



TWILIGHT. 



God's boundless sky hath stretch'd too far, 
This weaiy day, beyond my gaze ; 

This is the hour to muse — no star 
Hath kindled o'er yon dusky haze. 

That seems a nearer Heaven, whose hue 

Looks tenderer than Day's searching blue. 

How calm the scene — yon waters lie 
All tranquil in their painted sleep, 

The young woods lean their hearts more nigh 
The beauty of the glassy deep, 

And whisper to the reeds below 

The dreams of love that haunt them so. 

It is not Day — it is not Night — 

'Tis something lovelier far than all ; 

When weird winds weave a tune more light, 
And flower-scents tinkle as they fall, 
6* 



114 TWILIGHT. 

And eyes unnumber'd wildly glance 
Through air, like gleams of young Romance. 

The wood-bird wakes and starts to see 
Their witch- work sparkles on his wings, 

And turns and turns suspiciously 

As if he deem'd them harmful things, — 

Then folds him in his little nest 

And nods upon his glittering breast. 

The angel, that unbars the gate 

Of night, stands wondering on yon hill. 

Nor lets the burning stars, that wait 
His bidding, march the skies until 

His soul hath drunk the sound and sight 

Of Earth and Heaven's sweet troth-plight. 

Oh ! when among the sons of men, 
My soul grows weary of their strife, 

How, at such times, I yield me then, 
To dreams of purer, holier life ; — 

Of life, with kindlier promise blent, 

In mingled love and duty spent. 



TWILIGHT. 115 



And ever, at this hour, there seems 
One gentle form to sit by me — 

The girl of all this wild heart's dreams, 
Its Time, and its Eternity ; 

And kindly as God's twilight skies 

She woos me with her thoughtful eyes. 

1846. 



^ 



THE SILENT MINISTRY 



Manifold is God's Evangel, 

But its mightiest forms are dumb, 

And full oft some silent angel 

Preacheth where no words do come. 



In the night-time, wild and lonely, 
When the wings of darkness fall. 

And the heart of sweet stars only 
Palpitate on Heaven's wall ; — 

When, together vaguely moulded 
Seem the sky, the sea, the ground, 

And the white day lies enfolded. 
Like a lady in a swound, — 



THE SILENT MINISTRY. 117 

Then my trembling heart that waketh, 

Nestles 'neath the wing of Fear, 
Till a still small whisper breaketh 

Softly on my spirit's ear. 

Though I know not all the meaning 

Of the mystic sense it bears, 
Yet a hope that is not seeming 

Lights the dark edge of my prayers. 

And a thought, like that I cherish'd 

For a being in my youth, 
Fills me, as, before she perish'd. 

It had fill'd me with its truth. 

And each form I knew of brightness, 

Robes of sovran lustre wears, 
Till my spirit, in its lightness. 

Climbs up to them on its prayers. 

Though their dumbness seems unbroken, 

Still that spirit sees and hears. 
Nor requires the outward token. 

Nor in future doubts or fears. 



118 THE SILENT MINISTRY. 

Blooms my past life on my present, 
With the beauteousness it wore, 

As on djy banks, bloom the pleasant 
Flowei'S, that angel wings fan o'er. 

Whether thus my human brothers 
In the God- word find a faith 

I know not ; — the hush of others 
To my heart such marvel saith. 

So my Faith is inner hearing 
Of the voices mute to sense, 

From Earth's lost ones re-appearing 
In " the great God-light " intense. 

I respect the living Preacher, 

Uttering Heaven- words to his kind. 

But my heart finds meetest Teacher 
When the sense is left behind. 

Then I see the truth more clearly. 
And His secret things grow plain. 

Which, when sense-regarded, nearly 
Drive me back to doubts again. 



THE SILENT MINISTRY. 119 

For the actual of the Earnest 

Makes sweet captive of the curse, 
*' Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 

Which the sense doth aye rehearse. 

And the darkness rended deeply, 

Shows in pure Evangel light 
Forms, adown the Heaven, steeply 

Floating in their robes of white. 

With the Incarne I am walking. 
Where the Faith-step oft hath trod, 

On the Mount of Vision, talking 
With the Silences of God. 



1846. 



DEATH OF ALLEN 



The soldier lay near Monterey 

Between the dark and light, — 
And the smile that lit his youthful brow, 

Illumin'd the Land of Night ; 
For he saw in his sleep the squadrons sweep 

Through the rush of the morrow's fight. 

He snatch'd from its sheath his bright, blue blade, 

When the drum first tapp'd Reveil, 
And he saw the city a league away 

In the dawn light dim and pale, 
And the flags borne on by the marsh'ling hosts. 

Like clouds in a driving gale. 

* Capt. W. B. Allen, of Lawrence county, Tenn., who was killed 
at Monterey, Mexico, Sept! 22d, 1846. 



DEATH OP ALLEN. 121 

He saw them marching slowly down 

The hill, and his soul could feel 
A thrill of awe at those moving fonns, 

And those ranks of bristling steel, — 
"Oh, fear of death I should a man,'* he said, 

" With girlish faintness reel 1" 

And then, in a martial tone, he spake, 
" Brave comrades, charge the foe !" — 

Good Heaven ! it was a glorious sight, 
To see those plumes stoop low, 

And the serried men with fear again 
Back in their fortress go. 

Rode by his General on a steed 

That snuff'd the fight afar, 
And swallow'd the ground at each furious bound. 

And said mid the trumps, " ha ! ha !" 
While the field, all round his reeking path, 

Blush'd like Aceldama. 

Out spake "Old Rough and Ready" then, 

" Burst on them through the wall," — 
'Twas answer'd by a deafning roar, 



122 DEATH OF ALLEN. 

And the thundering cannon ball. 
And a crash, as when a thousand oaks 
In a lonely forest fall. 

Then he heard a mighty shout go up, 
Like the voice of myriad waves, 

" Ho ! Mexique soldiers, fill the breach, 
Or be forever slaves," — 

And the death-wind, like a tempest-blast, 
Tore the banners off their staves. 

But the hurricane rush'd on amain, 

They fled like driven leaves, 
While fort and tower fell crumbling down, 

As when an earthquake heaves. 
And the men that guarded them were " swept 

Like icicles " from their eaves. 

Yet still, at the head of his men, he led 
Their steps where a foe might seem, 

And his crimson sword in the seething smoke 
Flam'd like a lightning gleam ; — 

Till, anon, a thunderous roll of drums 
Shook the battle of his dream. 



DEATH OF ALLEN. 123 

A shout ! and the dreamer knew full well 

'Twas the children of the Free, 
That were hurling their cry through the shatter'd sky 

To the God of victory — 
And his soul had well-nigh burst its chain 

In its triumphant glee. 

A change swept over the sleeper's brow ; — 

He ween'd not of space between 
The battle-field and his pleasant home, — 

The Gulf and the mighty stream. 
And thousands of miles had all been pass'd 

In the whirlwind of his dream. 

The homestead smil'd in the pleasant light, 

Of a sweet September morn. 
He could hear the crush of the reapers' hands 

Amid the golden corn, — 
" Be still ; distracting thoughts," he cried, 

"Of war's mad folly born." 

His parents stood at the open door. 
Their words were few and meek. 
He tried to tell of the glorious fight, 



124 DEATH OP ALLEN. 

But his lips refused to speak ! 
And now, like a burning seal, they lay 
Upon his sister's cheek. 

Oh, wealth of Love ! what charm hath Fame, 

That men make mock of thee ? 
He would not have given that moment's joy I 

For a tenfold victory, — 
But hark ! young soldier, the spell is broke, 

'Tis the drum beats Reveille. 

He woke — historic page will tell 

What glorious deeds were done, — 
But woe for the dreamer ! he hath no part 

Beneath the golden sun ; 
Oh ! weep for that brave young friend of ours, 

Who a soldier's grave hath won. 

1846. 



THE LONE INDIAN. 



A SHADE had pass'd o'er the bright, broad sun 

Ere he clomb to his mid-day height, 
And alway through vapors his fire-plumes swum, 
And staring comets came out, and run 

Through the frighten'd heavens at night. 

Each portent the Indian seers had read, 

When the winds and the waves were whist. 
They saw but the tokens of woe and dread, 
And they sigh'd for the peaceful hunting-grounds sprea d 
'Yond the margin daylight kiss'd. 

No longer the War-God waked the proud 

To battle for victory, 
But the boom of the cannon long and loud. 
Like Manitou's voice in the thunder cloud, 

Had bidden the Red-tribe flee. 



126 THE LONE INDIAN. 

And one by one they had stole away, 

Till there only was left a score — ' 
Of weak, wan women, and fathers gray, 
A chieftain that guarded their rights alway, 

And his beautiful child of four. 

There was nothing on Earth he lovM but her, 

She was fair as the summer dawn. 
And his heart was a silent worshipper 
To the music made by the young leaves' stir, 

That she press'd like the springing fawn. 

'Twas the noontime heat — and she came and laid 

Her cheek on his dusky breast, 
And strange and wild were the words she said, 
While the fever-dream on her spirit prey'd. 

Of the land where the wearied rest. 

His heart broke fast while the Powwah tried 
His charms on the sufferer's brain, 

For he needs must think how her mother died 

Just so in the " golden eventide," 
And he knew his skill was vain. 



THE LONE INDIAN. 127 

A year pass'd on — and the white men spread 

Their crops o'er his buried child, — 
And the good old Powwah too was dead, 
And the others had left him all and fled 

To a home in the distant wild. 

He sought for his dear old haunts in vain, — 
They had slunk from his foes' dread eye, 

He saw but their harvests of golden grain 

Go blushing over the groaning wain, 
And their homes in the sunset lie. 

" There is naught for the red-man here to love, 

" There is naught loves him," sighed he, 
" He has no friend left but the Friend above, 
" And his heart lies dead with his smitten dove, 
" Must he turn from her grave and flee ?" 

I know not whether his spirit heard 

A voice from the cold, cold rime. 
But a pleasant change o'er his features stirr'd. 
Like the smile that is waked by the first sweet bird, 

In the beautiful vernal time. 



128 " THE LONE INDIAN. 

And, by those who remember the deed, 'tis said, 

That after the set of day, 
He open'd the grave where his child was laid, 
And tearfully bore in his arms the maid 

To a wild- wood far away. 

1846. 



THE MONTAUK'S VOW 



" That way," said a friend who was urging me to go, " lies East 
Hampton, and there, stretching far out into the sea, is old Montauk, 
washed by the waves of unknown ages, and pointing century after 
century its taper fingers into the mighty Ocean. Here is the resting- 
place of the great nation that faded like snow-wreaths fi-om the Island. 
Four miles east of Sag Harbor, near the road, is the Sachem's Hole. 
Tradition says that when the Eagle of the Montauks was carried to 
his grave, the bearers rested their burden here, and where the foot of 
their chief stood last on earth, the mourning tribe with their hands 
hollowed out the ground." — New-York Observer. 



They hollow'd a place with their fingers there, 

Where lie bravely fought and fell, — 
And men stood bow'd on their bosoms bare, 
And women, drooping their long, loose hair, 
As if bound in their chief's death-spell. 

All still till the mournful rite was done, 
Then thus spake " The Sunny Eye," 
7 



130 



" The Eagle his home in the clouds hath won, 
Shall his children go to the setting sun, 
Where the Pale-face bids them fly ? 

" Have our hands grown cold on the battle-blade, 
Shall we fly like the timid deer ? — 
I have utter'd a vow for a dark-hair'd maid — 
And the old priest knelt while the words were said, 
And the spirits bent down to hear. 

" For a white man came, with a wound oppress'd. 

And the Indian heal'd his sore, — 

But he carried the girl that my soul lov'd best, 

Ere my heart had lain on her tremblipg breast, 

Where I never could find her more. 

" And they told me then how the white man's God 
Would put out the ravisher's eyes ; 
So I roam'd with the panther the forest sod 
To find the path where his feet had trod, 
And list to his doleful cries. 

" I found it not, and the maid ne'er came. 
To say if they told me true ; 



THE MONTAUK S VOW. 131 

Then I breath'd this vow from my heart of flame, 
To be a curse of the white man's name. 
For his after seed to rue." 

He ceased. They pass'd to the Sachem's grave, 

Then turn'd to the boundless sea, — 
There was stifling of hate, and of yearnings brave, 
Must they leave the land that their fathers gave, 
Are the red-brow 'd men not free ? 

Just then a billow went whooping by. 

As if Manitou hurried past, 
And they answer'd the sound in a battle cry. 
That shatter'd the dome of the sullen sky. 

Like a rattling thunder blast. 

And never an hour from that time, they say. 

Hath the Montauks' vengeance slept ; 
And the bones of many a hard-fought fray, 
That bleach in the light of their setting day, 
Declare how the vow was kept. 

1845. 



HYMN TO THE WIND. 



The power of silence weighs 
Upon this populous solitude, and the leaves 

'Neath the meridian blaze, 
Lay their hush'd hearts together, and the breeze 

Summons no echoes forth, 
From Nature's organ, o'er the fainting earth. 

Minstrel of air ! oh, sweep 
The innumerable keys of its majestic pile, 

Till music wild and deep 
Swell grandly through each dim, mysterious aisle. 

And its full volume make 
The hoar, old sanctuary of the world awake ! 

I see the young leaves stir. 
Where thy light fingers through their compass run, 

And, like a worshipper, 
Each flower bows gently to the strain begun, 



HYMN TO THE WIND. 133 

And joyous birds sing out, 
And, the glad waters clap their hands, and shout ! 

Ten thousand, thousand keys 
Start cunningly to thy quick, impulsive will, 

And the deep bass of seas 
Moans through the small, soft cadences, that still 

Weave the light summer cloud, 
And woo the sweet bud from its velvet shroud. 

Hark ! in the noon-light now, 
Fuller and deeper waxes the refrain, 

Till every mighty bough 
Of the great forest reels beneath the strain, 

And frighten'd, overhead. 
Day, turned to blackness, shudders in its dread. 

Ah ! thou hast struck, at last. 
Thy diapason, and the thunder's tone, 

That leaps before the blast, 
Swallows all other harmonies in its own ! 

Wind-minstrel, thou hast blent 
All nature's voices, in one groaning pent ! 



134 HYMN TO THE WIND. 

How it doth fill the nave 
Of the great universe, and shuddering fling 

Its anthem in the grave, 
And now exultingly mount up, and sing 

Where the faint stars alone, 
With tinkling tread, march round th' Eternal's throne. 

Be ye lift up, oh, gates ! 
Ye everlasting doors, dissolve in sound ! 

The mighty chorus waits 
To roll new harmonies through Heaven's profound, 

Till its old cedars nod, 
And gladness stir the calm, wide heart of God. 

1846. 



SONNET. — POETRY. 



It is a time to speak. Almighty God ! 
Is there no poet in the glorious West — 
No tripod set within one breathing breast — 

None that dares scatter Heaven-seed abroad — 

No soul "uplifted" that doth "spurn the sod?" 
Shall we thus falter from our high behest, 
Fear the low scorn of fools whom we detest, 

And dole sick couplets for vile souls to laud ? 

Speak, speak! tongue-flam'd, speak for the mighty- 
dead! 

Speak for yourselves, and make great thoughts your 
thrones. 
Speak, or thick curses gather round your head, 

And children's children will insult your bones ! 
The blood of Saxon bards is in your soul, 
Sons of the sons of song, let echoes roll ! 

1845. 



SONNET. — THE POET. 



Whoso would be the Poet of this age, 

Must stand near God's gi'eat heart, and list its beat ; 
In Bible- wisdom he must be a sage ; — 

We are grown sick of jackdaws that repeat 
Monotonous chatterings about hills and vales, 

Without the utterance of one Heaven-sent truth ; 
For earth is growing old, and music fails 

To cheer her now, that rous'd her lusty youth. 
He must have learnM to ponder and to scan 

The Essential Right, so he may truly know 
Each link that binds the failing race of man 

To God's almightiness, for weal or woe. 
This is no age a rhymer sole to be, 
When Time's worn vail lets through Eternity. 

1846. 



THE FULLER LIFE 



" More life, and fuller, that I want " 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Who loathes his life ? This common air 

Is purer, and this earth more fair 

Than death-winds and the grave-land are. 

Who loathes his life ? who pines for death ? 
Who lists to what the Tempter saith ? 
Who is so sick of breathing breath ? 

Oh, craziness ! when pleasures pall. 
Is life less life, or God not all ? 
Immortal ! whither can we fall ? 

What if life's mystery we dread. 
Not to our hearts hath wisdom said — 
Run to death's mystery instead. 

7* 



138 THE FULLER LIFE. 

All pain is separate from life ; 

'Tis want of this that brings in strife, 

Full being with but joy is rife. 

We view that being only near, 

'Tis what we do not see we fear, 

We want " more life " — a light more clear. 

" More life and fuller " — but to know 
The mysteries that come and go 
In shadows round us, to and fro. 

Or else we cling to earth-born store 
Like birds round some enchanted shore, 
Clinging, nor rising evermore. 

So dreamy hangs God's quiet sky, 

So thick around earth's fair fruits lie, — 

What seem we ? mere Lotophagi. 

The air we breathe — these fruits we taste. 

Our very sense of being waste. 

Ah, fools ! forgetting where we haste. 



THE FULLER LIFE. 139 



More life — to quit this dreamful strand, 
We perish in this Lotos-land ; — 
God ! tear us home to thy right hand. 

Oh, brothers ! speak no more of death, 
List rather what the God-word saith, 
"Being hangs not on human breath." 

Our life is dim — from zone to zone 
The Infinite is round it thrown ; 
We have not all which is our own. 

Look with me on God's silent night, 
Each star sits in yon crownless height, 
In its empyreal splendors dight ! 

Save one that pales upon its pyre. 
As if its mighty heart of fire 
Were failing of intense desire. 

'Tis but sublim'd to thy weak eyes, 
As, when the morning sun shall rise. 
Its sisters will be in the skies. 



140 THE FULLER LIFE. 

The winds that struggled all the day, 
Or kiss'd the flowers in am'rous play, 
Where are they fled to ? can ye say ? 



Silence from all sounds merg'd is wrought. 
As from all hues no hue is caught — 
God is the coi'porate Ens they sought. 



All things are tending to their source :— 
Why should we sicken in the course, — 
Give boundless hope for fearful worse ? 

Oh, brothers \ speak no more of death, 
List rather what the God- word saith, 
*■'■ Being hangs not on human breath." 

What should we pray for, but to be 
Merg'd in that fuller entity ?— 
"Unclothed," — no! " clothed upon," that we. 

Our mortal with th' Immortal blent, 
May know and feel what is unkent 
In the clay house where we are pent ! 



THE FULLER LIFE. 141 

Life — life we want, and freer wings, 
To pierce this hue of outward things, 
This soul-garb of the King of kings ! 

We do not crave Death's leaden rod, 

We die while in this earthly clod, 

We want " full life "—the life of God ! 

1847. 



THE CLOUD. 



As new and as pure look'd the blue of the sky 
As if God had that eve first unroll'd it, 

And each blossom was lifting its delicate eye 
From the earth, where it sat to behold it. 



The landscape was vocal — bright birds flutter'd down 
Through the azure, and warbled their numbers, 

And the Day-king had left on the mountains his crown, 
And departed in peace to his slumbers. 



How calm was that moment ! how sweetly unroll'd 
Lay the earth on the bosom of even, — 

But not to my heart were its blossoms and gold 
So fair as one form in the heaven. 



THE CLOUD. 143 

For a silver-rob'd cloud, where the bright cheek of day 
With the kiss of the sun was yet burning, 

Like a white sail outspread in the distance away. 
To its haven of glory was turning. 

I follow 'd its form as it floated along, — 

(How deep was my spirit's emotion !) 
And I thought of the bark we are all guiding on 

Through the depths of a treacherous ocean. 

It melted in brightness — I pray'd as it rose 
That when life I am call'd to surrender, 

The sunshine of God might illumine its close, 
And my being go out in its splendor. 

1845. 



RURAL HYMN. 



Oh, not alone do they, 
Who crowd in dusty cities, joyance find ; 

Heaven's gifts surround our way 
More freely in the country ; — here the wind 

Bends from the blue and sings. 
All day in gladness, to earth's sinless things. 

Here sunshine longest dwells. 
And the glad waves go dancing in its light, 

And the green grass upswells. 
And the rich harvest stretches on the sight. 

And by the water's brink 
Stoops many a trembler its fair form to drink. 

The painted birds glance through 
The twinkling leaves, and their deep gladness pour, 

Or flutter down the blue 
To hold fond dalliance with some blushing flower, 



RUEAL HYMN. 145 

And harsher sounds ne'er come 
Than birds, and breezes, and the wild bees' hum. 

Peace, like a presence, reigns 
O'er all the hills infold — the dwellers in 

God's vast and silent plains 
Hear his still voice, unbroken by the din 

Of echoing " steps, that beat, 
Like Autumn rain," the city's crowded street. 

And, therefore, poets say, 
" God made the country," — for his smile they trace 

On the blue sky all day. 
And when the stars are printed on its face, 

His audible spirit seems 
To sing a lullaby to land and streams. 

1846. 



TO AN EVENING CLOUD 



Radiant dreamer in regions fair ! 

Beautiful phantom of sun and air ! 

I mark thy shape where thou seem'st to lie 

A deeper sunshine on yonder sky, 

Bathing thy form in all glorious hues, 

Drinking the soul of the evening dews, 

Lifting now like an angel's wing, 

And my heart doth bless thee — beautiful thing ! 

Chameleon shape ! in thy changeful shroud, 
To what shall I liken thee — summer cloud ? 
Now, as thou risest, thy robes of gold 
Round thy argent bosom in beauty roll'd, 
Stirr'd by naught save the hymning sound 
Of the orlDcd ones as their choir go round. 
Thou look'st a sprite in th' Empyrean broad. 
Leaning thy brow on the hand of God ! 



TO AN EVENING CLOUD. 147 

Never a moment the same — a thought 
With every change of thy form is wrought. 
Now thou seem'st list'ning the weird-like breeze, 
Touching his swift, mysterious keys ; 
Now like a maiden's, sovran and bare. 
Trembles thy breast on the wooing air ; 
Now are thy fleecy robes outspread 
Like a tufted floor for the young stars' tread. 



Changed yet more ! from thy fiery hand 
Thou'rt hurling in terror the lightning brand ; 
Thy robe is the darkness — the thunder thy tread, 
The Earth is a chaos — the stars are dead ! 
Away, and away on thy rapid flight ! 
Thou art seen no more on the brow of night, 
And naught is above but the soft, sweet tune 
Of the low wind lulling the frighten'd moon. 

Glorious Spirit ! I would I could be 
In the Heaven of genius a thing like thee ; 
Bending never my wing to earth. 
Living each moment in changeful birth, 



148 TO AN EVENING CLOUD. 

Drinkincr the bloom of the blessed throns^, 
Borne by invisible breathings on, 
A beauty and terror to mortal eyes, 
Rushing in glory to Paradise. 

1846. 



FLOWERS 



Array'd in garments of Paradise, 
Turning to Heaven your fair, meek eyes. 
Mocking the glory of human pride, 
Flinging your incense on every side ; 
Emblems of beauty, and types of love, 
Lifting the heart to its home above ; 
Light of the vanishing summer hours, 
I bless my God for the gift of flowers. 

Beautiful visitants !— every where 

Ye come to lighten the heart of care ; 

Blooming in palaces— idly thrown 

In childrens' paths— round the dull grave-stone ; 

Passionless— pure— in your robes of light, 

Ye know no sorrow— ye have no night ; — 

Pencilings of angel hands are ye ? 

Tell they their loves by your gift, as we ? 



150 FLOWERS. 

Children of sunshine ! doth there not dwell 
Some spirit of light in each painted cell ? 
Go they not out in beauty and song ? 
Breathe they not peace, as they glide along ? 
Have ye no voice, as stars, that shout 
The rapturous bliss of their gladness out, 
Mingling its music in mystic tie 
With the soul of the Earth's rich symphony ? 



Vain, oh ! vain, ye are simpler things — 
Hope in the heart from your beauty springs — 
Born to throw o'er the quiet sod 
The peaceful, visible smile of God — 
Flaunting your robes of purple and gold, 
Drooping, and dying e'er summer be told. 
Pageants of splendor, soon passing away — 
Emblems of Paradise — types of decay. 



God, whose smile is the summer's glow — 
God, whose love is the gorgeous show 
The seasons bear in their changing hours 
Of varying hues, and bright, bright flowers. 



FLOWERS. 151 

Thou, who givest each garment fair 
The tremblers that sit by the streamlets wear — 
Grant that my life, like these, may be 
Adorn'd with the grace of humility. 
1844. 



FADED FLOWERS, 



Truants from Paradise, 
That in your glory neither toil nor spin ! 
What dims the heavenly lustre of your eyes ? 

Ye have no stain, nor sin. 

Clad by your Father's care 
In robes more gorgeous than are kings array'd ; 
Gayly ye flaunt your garments on the air 

One little hour, and fade. 

Yearn ye for Heaven once more ? 
Are there fair bowers where ye may bud and bloom ? 
Do angel hands transplant you on the shore 

Of light beyond the tomb ? 

Or steals your soul to breathe 
The love ye symbol to that world of joy ? 
Do its bright ones, when flowers we idly wreathe, 

Regard our blest employ ? 



FADED FLOWERS. 153 

Bright gifts of God-— can He 
Paint your fair robes, nor heed you when ye fade ? 
Cares He not for his children ? are not ye 

In his own bosom laid ? 

Peace, peace ! the self-same hand, 
That decks the lily in its gorgeous pride, 
Marks every trembler, though remote it stand 

By the still waters' side. 

And when they bow in death, 
Garners their beauty in the willing heart. 
But leaves upon them his own fragrant breath, 

When all their hues depart. 

Father ! so keep my life, 
Bright in thy hand each swift-revolving day, 
Acting its part thus meekly in the strife. 

And turn'd to Thee alway : — 

That when the time shall come 
For me to fade, e'en as the flowers, and die, 
Like heavenly fragrance some good action done. 

May on my memory lie. 

1844. 

8 



THE WINDS 



We have our birth where the shadowy earth 

Wheels round through the yielding air, 
In the atoms she flings from her rushing wings 

On the firmament blue and bare ; — 
And the brooding sun, that quickens each one 

By the glow of his sanguine breast. 
Reels sickly and dim as his fire-plumes swim 

Through the whirl of our wak'd unrest. 
We trail his vermilion o'er heaven's pavilion, 

And out of the home of dev/s 
We scatter the stores of " the ocean and shores," 

And deep in its teint infuse ; — 
And then again we are blowing amain 

Our weird-work through the skies. 
Till trembling and bare of her mist- robe there 

The earth in his ardors lies. 



THE WINDS. 155 

We wander at will by the pleasant rill, 

Through the livelong summer day, 
And loosen the curls of the dark-eyed girls, 

In our wild and wanton play ; 
We call from the frore, sleeping earth her store. 

We poise o'er the hyacinth's bell, 
And the sweet eclipse of the violet's lips 

We woo till it feels the spell. 
And rock'd in our arms its dainty charms 

It gives, as a maiden gives. 
When, with never a sigh, she hath stay'd her eye 

On him in whose love she lives. — 
The spirits that glance on a viewless lance. 

When the noontide glory burns. 
We are wooing in song till they scatter along 

Rich gifts from their golden urns ; 
And so all the while of the heaven's blue smile, 

We float on a languid wing. 
And murmur and creep where the rose-scents sleep, 

And the crystal wavelets spring. 



We weave the shroud of the tent-like cloud. 
And pillow it on our breast, 



156 THE WINDS. 

When it seems to lie in the gold-lit sky, 

Like a white- wing'd dove at rest ; 
And the radiant hair of the sunset fair 

We toss on its blooming side, 
Till it blushes as red o'er the Day-god's bed, 

As blushes a new-made bride, — 
And all the night by the faint starlight. 

With our nursling in our arms, 
We are waiting the spell of the spirits that dwell 

In the smile of the Storm-king's charms. 
And when the rack of their hurrying track 

Glides into the cloud's dark pall, 
We wing the beam of the fiery stream 

That mortals the lightning call ; 
And the dim orbs reel as the burst they feel, 

And groaneth the dark earth under. 
While we follow after with roaring laughter 

The genii that call in thunder. 
The shadowy arch of their fiery march 

Like a shriv'ling parchment flies. 
But we batter its woof till, no longer rain-proof. 

It drops from the vaulted skies, 
And while it distils o'er the plains and hillls 

Its treasures of hail and rain, 



THE WINDS. 157 

We are strewing the trees with our wings and these 

As a thresher strews the grain ; — 
And then through a rift in its horrible drift 

We seek the Empyrean's breast, 
And whistle a tune to the " ragged moon," 

In her ghostlike garments drest. 
Till her turning pole with a golden roll, 

Spins steeplier down the west. 



We sail o'er the sea where the mariners be, 

Guiding their sprite-like vans, 
And dreaming of home, as they wearily roam. 

Are cursing the sun and calms, — 
We hollow the deep for the Ouphes that sweep 

Through coral groves bright and rare, 
To lure by the rays of their moonstone gaze 

The dead to their slumbers there ; 
While the damned wail of the sea-maids pale 

Roars blank through each cavern wide. 
And the dulse is seen o'er the changeful green 

To weep in a blood-red tide ; 
Till the surging sound of the waves around 

Closes over the dead and these. 



158 THE WINDS. 

And won by the love of the Fire-god above, 
We are lulling the angry seas, 

That the calmed brine in his sweet sunshine 
Lies still as a pulseless breeze. 



O'er valley and hill by a boundless will, 

Through clime and through time we go. 
And the stores of the main we scatter again 

In water, and hail, and snow. 
Rich odors we bear from the vineyards rare — 

Disease from the fev'rish zone ; 
We mingle our song, as we sweep along, 

With the laugh and the dying groan. 
We scatter the seeds o'er the earth that breeds. 

We watch for the opening flower. 
And feed it with dew * when its heart is new, 

And fondle it every hour, — 
The Harmattan blast that scorcheth past 

The fierce Euroclydon, 
And the Samiel are the robes we wear, 

When our fury driveth on. — 

* " And the young winds fed it with silver dew." — Shelley. 



THE WINDS. 159 

From pole tO' pole like a fiery soul. 

Hath our fearful presence been. 
And ye hear our sound, but where we are bound. 

No mortal hath told, we ween. 



1847. 



THE RAINBOW. 



** Theme of primeval prophecy. 
Be still the poet's theme." 

CampbelIk. 

It left my fall soul like the wing of a dore. 

All flattering with pleasure^ and fluttering with love." 

Amelia. 



The sunshine smiled out, like the Being who made it, 
In peace o'er the face of that rapturous scene. 

And the landscape looked fresh as if God had array 'd it 
That eve, for the first, in its mantle of green. 



The clouds that the thunder- wind all day had driven. 
Were tow'ring like pillars of fire in the w^est, 

And betwixt their huge forms, by Omnipotence riven, 
Look'd out the sweet blue from the land of the blest. 



THE RAINBOW. 161 

'Neath the wing of the light breeze the foliage was 
dancing, — 

Like atoms of sunshine amid the dark trees, 
Bright birds in the plumage of heaven were glancing, 

Till the forest all flutter 'd with rain-drops and these. 



I was lone and dejected, — the evil words spoken 
Of the songs that the Minstrel-boy lightly had sung, 

Had o'erwhelm'd me, and deeply I yearn'd that some 
token 
Of love, and of hope to my soul might be flung. 



As I scornfully turn'd, in most exquisite sadness. 
To cover each beautiful thought with a shroud, 

I was melted to tears by a vision of gladness 
That rose to my view on the face of the cloud. 



For lovelier far than the bright hues of even 
Were its tints interwoven with infinite grace, 

As her mirror reflection held up in the heaven, 
And the smile of the Deity beam'd on its face. 

8* 



162 THE RAINBOW. 

Oh ! 'twas glorious to see it thus calmly unfolded, — 
Like the thought of a poet it sprang into birth, 

And it stood like a fabric his fancy had moulded, 
Its key-stone in heaven, its base on the earth. 

The birds dimm'd its bright disk, all joyously singing, 
As they fled with the tidings to heavenly bowers ; 

While beneath it fair spirits from gold urns were flinging 
Their sweetest«of fragrance and fairest of flowers. 

As I gazed, like a child, on the radiant vision. 

Like the thoughts of a child came my memories sweet, 

And I dream'd yet once more of the prospects Elysian, 
And " the treasures of gold " that were hid at its feet. 

How flutter'd my heart for awhile with emotion ! 

As each fancy of childhood rose bright on my view, 
Till it melted away in yon limitless ocean, 

And my dreams, with the rainbow, had fled away too. 

I know, oh, I know that my future existence 

Will be link'd with full many a moment of pain. 

Yet I would not shrink back from one hour in the distance, 
How lonely soe'er, could I dream thus again ! 



THE RAINBOW. 163 

But sweeter, far sweeter, the promise it left me, 

For my God in those bright tints spake thus to my fears, 

" When I've smitten thy pride, and of friends have be- 
reft thee, 
Look up ! and my rainbow FlI paint from thy tears." 

1845. 



LINES TO S 



Lady I I will not wear 
A beauteous seeming ; Fll be false no more — 
Here, on thy gaze, this madden'd heart I'lli tear. 

Even to its very core. 



My song shall be wrung out 
In bitterness, and to the base world cast : 
Why care I longer for its envious shout. 

More hollow than the blast ? 



Have I not spoke sweet words 
Of hope, and memory, and woman's trust ? 
Have I not chanted like the summer birds 

Lays for its ear of dust ? 



LINES TO S . 165 

Have I not tried to wake 
Its dull heart into action ? have I not 
Made life and love their holiest image take — 

God ! only for the sot ? 

The world is false — not I, 
For I have thrown most precious jewels forth, 
And in my heart far costlier offerings lie, 

Like gems within the earth. 

And 'twas within that heart 
To sing more sweetly than I yet had sung ; 
But I have felt its tend'rest fibres start — 

Lady, it is unstrung ! 

I tell thee I have yearn'd 
For love, nor found it ; like a steadfast flame, 
Consuming but itself, my soul hath burn'd 

For the bright goal of Fame. 

I threw myself away 
To be a driveler for the world's applause ; 
I moulded my soul's visionings, till they 

Look'd like material laws. 



166 LINES TO S . 

I would have given all — 
Yea, all the promise that this fond life hath, 
But to be borne 'neath Genius' awful pall. 

With glory round my path. 

I dream no more of this, 
Nor will I wake those earnest songs again ; 
I am a candidate for common bliss, 

And that with common men. 

Yet did I think that Love, 
The pure, the truthful, was not all a name ; 
I have been taught it dwells in realms above — 

'Tis emptier here than Fame. 

1 treasur'd in my soul 
The smiles that to my youthful days were dear ; 
Love was not, long ere I had reached its goal, 

And now I can but sneer. 

I heard my friends revil'd. 
Till the blood mounted to my burning cheek ; 
I saw contempt when they who wore it smil'd — 

And now I can but speak. 



LINES TO S . 167 

Oh, we are fools, in sooth ! 
Our very hearts are pander'd for a smile ; 
Reckless we barter innocence and truth 

For this world's luring guile. 

Then why should Poet sing 
Of love, or cover treach'ry with a mask 1 
Backward the' world these precious offerings fling. — 

Heart, to thy solemn task ! 

The task to gather up 
Thy mock'd oblations on a senseless shrine. — 
Thanks ! for this once there has no painted cup 

Been given from hands of mine. 

I would I had been born 
With treble my endurance — that my heart 
Could lift itself above the base world's scorn, 

Nor feel its love depart. 

Lady, thou canst not know 
How very soon my dreamings will expire, — 
How soon their madden'd memories I'll throw 

Upon the quivering lyre. 



168 LINES TO S- 



I will not be the slave, 
To pander thus my soul's unvalued store — 
Thought — feeling, — sooner dig thyself a grave, 

And rot for evermore. 

Old man ! thy heart of dust ; — 
I'll give thee for it all my hope of days. 
Child of ambition, pride, and worldly lust — 

Would I could rest always ! 

1845. 



PONDER BOLDLY.^' 



" Ponder boldly, 'tis a base 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought." Byron. 



In the clashing of opinions, 

Young men ! seek some lofty aim ; 
Be not ye the crouching minions 

To a selfish, vaunted name. 
Proudly burst the iron fetters 

Superstition loves to bind — 
What are creeds but dreamy letters ? 

Live for God — the truth — thy kind. 

Truth, though pure and Heaven-descended, 
God makes free to all that seek ; — 

Ye are Priests in union blended 
With its Author — dare to speak ! 



170 " PONDER BOLDLT. 

Priests at its great Inquisition, — 
Scorn all other slavish bands ; 

Priests by loftier imposition 
Than the laying on of hands. 



'' Ponder boldly," dare ye stifle 

" Truth's high promptings," and the heart 
Of its holiest yearnings rifle, — 

Will ye act the coward's part ? 
What's Tradition but a story ! 

What are sects but idle dreams ! 
Ponder, till Truth's dawning glory 

Through their darkness brightly beams. 



Sect or Party — whatsoever 

Standard others choose to bear — 
Think ! the earnest soul was never 

Satisfied with empty air ; 
And though many a bosom tender 

Fail you in this trying hour, 
Be ye only Truth's defender, 

God himself will give you power. 



"ponder boldly. 171 

When ye hear the lute Temptation, 

Be your brow with thought o'ercast, — 
What is wealth or gorgeous station 

To a truthful heart at last ? 
" Ponder boldly," rest unshaken, 

Though your cause should seem to fall, — 
Truth but slumbers — 'twill awaken, 

Ye shall stand by error's pall. 



Shrink not from your stern high duty 

When delirious words ye hear ; 
Worship neither wealth nor beauty. 

Stricken hearts they cannot cheer. 
Seek some high and noble spirit, 

Costlier than all beside. 
She that burneth to inherit 

All your power, and hope, and pride. 



Young men ! arm yourselves for action. 
See, they come, life's motley crowd ! 

Stand before each rival faction 
Independent, fearless, proud ! 



172 "ponder boldly. 

" Ponder boldly," act, or cherish 

Yearning thoughts and hopes no more, 

Anchorless your bark will perish 
Ere it toucheth Heaven's shore. 

1845. 



THE CLOSE OF SUMMER. 



'TwAS the last eve of summer — the sun had gone down, 
And had left on the mountains his robe and his crown, 
And the hues of their glory still flash'd in the sky. 
Till the moon and the stars, that were riding on high, 
Caught up the bright links, and each orb dancing on. 
Came out in fair garments, and burst into song. 
While the Spirit of Fragrance, yet roaming about 
Through the earth and the air, pour'd its offerings out. 



I mus'd on the scene — 'twas surpassingly sweet — 
The gold-spangled verdure that slept at my feet. 
The bright, dewy watchers that hung in the sky, 
And each fair little cloud that went blushingly by. 
While the winds as they pass'd sent their melodies out, 
And the wild-warbling waves answer'd back with a 
shout. — 



174 * THE CLOSE OF SUMMER. 

'Twas enchanting. — My spirit soon wander'd away 
To bathe in the fragrance, and melt in the ray, 



When a vision rose up, and I deem'd that it woke 
From the last breath of summer these words, that were 

spoke : 
" Why heed we Time's flight, when it bears us along 
Down the stream of a life full of sunshine and song, — 
When the voice of the Past calls no memory back. 
To throw its dark shade o'er the joy of our track, 
When the hearts that we lov'd, 'neath the warm skies of 

June, 
Preserve in December their sweetness of tune !" 



I mus'd — it was only the song of my soul, 
Bidding dreams of the Past o'er its dark waters roll. 
Calling up each sweet scene that my infancy knew. 
Each smile that was guileless, each heart that was true ; 
'Twas Mem'ry, dividing the links of my life, 
And showing those free of its sorrow and strife, 
In my aching breast causing the tempest to cease, 
And bending above it the rainbow of Peace. 



THE CLOSE OF SUMMER. 175 

'Twas the echo of youth, when my spirit was glad, 
And bright eyes were round me — how could I be sad ; 
When the being I lov'd in her brightness and bloom, 
Had not as yet sought the repose of the tomb, — 
But 'neath the bright star-light, in all the fair pride 
Of her angel-like beauty, she sat by my side, 
And heav'd my young heart, as the bosom of seas, 
When they lie in soft dreams of their lover, the breeze. 



I mus'd — and the spirit that wilder'd me then. 
Like the voice of an angel, pass'd o'er me again — 
Each star that came out in its brightness to sing — 
Each cloud that in rapture had pois'd its bright wing- 
Each wave that came dancing in song to my feet, 
As the breezes rode by and woke harmonies sweet — 
And that angel-like one in her beauty that died. 
Whom memory brought, and set down by my side. 



All woke a sweet vision of song and of fame. 
Till I took down my harp, and just touch'd it again ; 
For I deem'd, as I deem'd in the spring-tune of youth, 
This world was a world full of brightness and truth ; 



176 THE CLOSE OF SUMMER. 

And I said, as I then said, " When summer goes by 
With its beauty and fragrance, the time is to die.'' 
And the strain that I woke, though it trembled once more 
In the accents of love, was not sweet as before. 



And I said, — for the dream from my spirit away 

Had pass'd, as had pass'd the last visions of day, 

" I'll throw by the harp, it has cheated my soul, 

And this heart shall no more live beneath its control ; — 

Though the winds and the waters have voices for me. 

From the wild spell of Poesy flow I am free, — 

The world shall not know the sweet echoes they fling. 

And this gush of my heart 's the last song that I'll sing." 

1844. 



SONNET. — THE NEW YEAR. 



It will be as the old. Winter will run 

His course, and the soft, amorous wind come forth 
To hunt for violets, and the frore earth 
Will put on daintiness — and then the sun 
Will grow more ardent ; last in pomp will come 
The solemn Autumn. " God is good," and hence 
Our loveful faith in His great Providence. 
And since 'tis He who orders what is done — 
Who binds the stars' " sweet influences," who guides 

" The ordinances of heaven," who finds a path 
For the swift lightning, and a way divides 

For the o'erflowing waters of His wrath — 
We know we shall not be forsaken here, 
But shall have blessings in the coming year. 

1846. 



SONNET. — HUMILITY. 



" What was it that ye disputed among yourselves by the way ?' 

Mark ix. 33. 

Well did they hold their peace. Meseems His love, 
Ineffably tender, on their pride breath'd so, 

" Have I laid by my Sonship, and below 

All depth descended, who wert erst above 

The Hallelujahs, that my soul should prove. 
For ye unshrinking must indeed be trod 
The blood-red wine-press of the wrath of God, 

Ere your deep sin the Father will remove ! 
I know your thoughts, yet fear not ; as this child, 

Oh little flock ! your Master will become, 
Reviling not when he shall be revil'd. 

And like a lamb, when offer'd, will be dumb ; — 

That so, if ye be followers of me. 

Heaven's brightest crown waits Earth's humility. " 

1847. 



SONNET. — BIGOTRY. 



" Oh, giant loud and blind !" great Polypheme ! 

Roaring and stamping in thy dome-built hall ; 
Wisdom hath robb'd thee of thy visual beam, 

And laughs in secret at thy sightless ball. 
Thou canst oppress God's sons but for a time, 

And with his hapless souls fill up thy maw : — 
What moment they but rouse in Faith sublime. 

Thou in their grasp art as a withe of straw. 
False brag ! thy better wisdom were to keep 

Thy doors fast barr'd, and watch thy hoarded store, 
The " No-man " that is skulking 'mong thy sheep, 

Will be Ulysses when he leaves the shore. 
Heaven makes us feel, at times, what fools we are, 
How its slight hint exceeds our boastings far. 

1846. 



CONRAD AND STELLA 



[Scene. One of the Florentine galleries. Stella, leaning upon 
the arm of Conrad, is gazing intently upon a painting. Conrad 
speaks musingly.] 

CONRAD. 

How like a Painter's being is to God's ! 
He may create in his own solitude 
Forms that he loves to fill it. Outwardly 
The semblances may flee, but in his heart 
Dwells the creation ever, and, sometime, 
The perfectness works out in future days 
Of first designing. 

STELLA, {gazing on the picture.) 

'Tis most beautiful ! 

CONRAD. 

No true work is a dream, nor is a thought 
Of holy purity less sure than God's 
To bask in its own brightness at the end. 



CONRAD AND STELLA. 181 

STELLA. 

I lik'd that head of Guido's we just saw, 
But this is wondrous better. 

CONRAD. 

Guido, Foh ! 
Rows of Madonnas with their eyes turn'd up — 
All mannerism,~'tis the soul that paints, — 
Creates its like, and likes what it creates 
With inexpressible earnestness ever on. 
Break, heart ! if it may not. 

STELLA. 

I'm sure 
You pointed out this picture once, and said 
'Twas like thy child. Look on it now, — the eye 
Is turned down as in pity, — a slight curl, 
Nathless, of pride, is on that vermeil lip ; 
I spell thy meaning. But, dear father ! say, — 
Say once again those features are like mine ', 
How beautiful ! alas ! thou hearest not. 
Do I prate idly, father? 

CONRAD. 

Stella \ 



182 CONRAD AND STELLA. 

STELLA. 

Thou wert not wont to call me by that name. 

CONRAD. 

What else then should I call thee ? 

STELLA. 

Daughter. 

CONRAD. 

No! 

STELLA. 

And why ? 

CONRAD. 

The shadows of old memories 
Of older dreams that wak'd them, flitted o'er 
My brain so hurriedly, that I forgot, 
(Pardon my thoughts,) forgot thy presence, child, 
And as I felt the pressure of thine arm. 
And heard thy birdlike voice, and saw 
Thine image in that picture, I forgot, 
And would have called thee by a tenderer name. 

STELLA. 

What name ? what name ? for in my thoughts hath 
swung 



CONRAD AND STELLA. 183 

A dim remembrance that thou once did say- 
Some strange fatality had brought me here. 

CONRAD. 

Probe not my heart too deeply. Hast thou heard 
The name of him whose magic pencil gave 
That canvas eloquence, and made it speak 
Of beauty so bewitching ? 

STELLA. 

I have heard but this, 
He was an outcast boy, who — 

CONRAD. 

Even so. — 
And if thine heart can nerve itself for grief, 
A moment — but a moment — I will tell 
That boy's sad history. 

STELLA. 

Father ! I know. 
If that the tale could injure thy dear child, 
Thy lips would not repeat it. 

CONRAD. 

I am he. 

The painter of that picture ! 



184 CONRAD AND STELLA. ^^ 

STELLA. 

No / they said 
(Who told me that boy's history) that he 
Met death in the Bosphorus, ere his fame 
Had reach'd the ones that bore him. 

CONRAD. 

Oh, my child ! 
'Twere better so, but 'twas not — ^thou dost mark 
The calmness of my look, as if my heart 
Had ne'er been wrung by passion. Stella, I 
Was a wild, visionary boy, and oft 
In dreams work'd out a destiny for which 
Waking I struggled — always my " boy-hopes " 
Yearn'd for one form of beauty, and I ne'er 
Look'd on the maidens that hung round my steps 
With amorous eye, but I was wont to stray 
To the lone mountain, and in airy thought 
Worship my soul's ideal ; oft men chid 
My wayward fancy, and our country's girls. 
That seem'd divine to others, oft would bend 
Their eyes upon me wooingly, and yet, and yet, 
I loath'd them deeply ; with my little book 
Of Poetry, that my own hands had writ, 



CONRAD AND STELLA. 185 

I stole away, and to the list'ning oaks 
Repeated my wild songs, nor knew that ear 
Of mortal, save myself, was nigh to drink 
Those wild imaginings. 

STELLA. 

And loas there ? 

CONRAD. 

One, 
But I had seen her not. 

STELLA. 

How knew'st thou then 
She heard them ? 

CONRAD. 

Hear what happened to me first, 
And thou'lt not need to ask. 

STELLA. 

Dear father, I 
Dwell on thy accents breathlessly ! 

CONRAD. 

Poor child ! 
I gave up dreaming for a while to seek 
Food for my daily wants, and then my thoughts 
9* 



186 CONRAD AND STELLA. 

Were turn'd to painting, but the same desire 

Still brooded o'er me, and I tried to stamp 

On canvas the bright image that my heart 

Had bodied forth in Poetry. I came 

To great Stambol ; and I do mind me now 

Of a sweet evening as I walked along, 

My easel and my painting on my arm, 

That a bright face, from a high balcony, 

Peer'd on me like a star, and a young voice 

Warbled a song of mine to melody 

That ravish'd my struck soul. I stood and gazed, 

While o'er me all the visions of my life 

Rush'd with bewildering brightness ; it was slie ! 

My worship'd idol, and thank God ! thank God ! 

Her face was on my canvas. I had not 

Believ'd that beauty had another seeming 

From my conceptions, and my soul had clung 

Like ivy round that image. Stella ! we 

Do love but one created form of God, — 

Or e'er to love a second it must be 

The shadow of that other — dost thou mark ? 

STELLA. 

I cannot read thy tale. 



CONRAD AND STELLA. 187 







CONRAD. 






Dear child ! 






STELLA. 






And this 


Is then that 


picture 


? 

CONRAD. 

No! 

STELLA. 

But hadst thou then 


That little book of 


Poetry ? 



CONRAD. 

I had. 
But as I journey'd on I sold them both. 

STELLA. 

No, father ! 

CONRAD. 

Yes ! to keep the little life 
I cherish'd but for her, and would have flung 
Away like sea- weed, if it had not been 
I hop'd some strange fatality might hap, 
And I regain the painting and, ay ! more, 
That it might lead to fortune. Stella ! thou 



188 CONRAD AND STELLA. 

Dost read already in my bright'ning glance 
The issue of my tale. 

STELLA. 

Father, go on ! 

CONRAD. 

Well, even as I hop'd, that trifle was 
The " open sesame " to my future life. 
Next day she sent for me, and I, poor boy, 
Flew gladly there. 

STELLA. 

And she was noble ! 

CONRAD. 

She was ! and I a starveling — but my heart 

Bore itself always loftily — and I 

(So daring were my aims,) would not have feared 

To woo an angel ; — but an angel never 

Doted upon some " bright, particular star," 

That God had set beyond him in the realms 

Of infinite space, with half the reverence. 

Or the strange, wild desire, that my fond heart 

Hung o'er that mortal face. Love, my dear girl. 

Knows no distinctions, though a proud vain world 



CONRAD AND STELLA. 189 

Have plac'd him in opinion ; — ihe rich lord, 
Believe me, on the straining breast of her 
He calls his wife, hath in his heart imagin'd 
'Twas some poor girl he clasp'd, and the vile serf 
Disgustingly turns off from coarse-grain'd lips, 
To kiss an angel ; wedlock doth not oft 
Couple but lust, for where the heart is not 
There is adultery most foul — dost mark ? 

STELLA. 

Then thou didst love that lady ? 

CONRAD. 

As the swan 
Pours out in dying his most luscious note, 
So from my heart gush'd heaven-born sweetness forth 
When that wild vision pass'd. 

STELLA. 

She spurn'd you then ? 

CONRAD. 

No, no ! but hear me on. She bade me mock 
Her image on the canvas. Oh, my God ! 
How could I sit before that peerless eye. 
And with untrembling pencil shadow forth 



190 CONRAD AND STELLA. 

Her beauty on my easel ? — -'twas too much. 
And yet I undertook it. Day by day, 
I wander'd o'er her features ; day by day, 
Grew my wild passion stronger ; the slight curl 
Of her young, " girlish lip," I thought, at times, 
Shadow'd contempt for the poor humble boy, — 
And then my hand was firmer — it would change, 
And I could mark upon its vermeil line 
Softness I could not mimic — and ah ! then 
Falter'd my pencil ; sometimes the light threads 
Of sunshine that o'erhung her ivory brow 
Would float bewilderingly, as if a hand 
Did toss them playfully, and then they lay. 
Like golden shadows, still. It might have been 
A fancy of the brain, but always to my heart 
Her features changed, and every day I sat 
Some startling beauty all unseen before 
Burst on my sight. I know not if I gazed 
Days few or many — but 'twas done at last. 
There hangs that painting now. 

STELLA. 

Good God ! go on. 



CONRAD AND STELLA. 191 

CONRAD. 

She said the mock was perfect, and then brought 

My first dream-effort forth, and bade me tell 

Where I had seen that face, it was so like 

The one I had just finished ; as she gave 

The picture to me from her soft, white hand. 

And stoop'd to show me where my skill had fail'd 

To mimic there her image, the gold clasp 

That all too negligently watch'd the folds 

O'er her breast's madd'ning beauty, loos'd its hold. 

And 'twixt their ravishing glow, that seem'd to blush 

Unconsciously at gaze of man, my eye 

Glanced on a little volume that lay there, — 

My book of Poetry ! 

STELLA. 

Oh no, 'twas not ! 

CONRAD. 

'Twas even so, my child, but I spake not ; 
Lest she should spurn me that my wanton gaze 
Had dar'd to fall on loveliness so bright, 
And unbeheld before. Her hair crept round 
My burning temples like the invisible wind 
All spiritually, and I could feel 



192 CONRAD AND STELLA. 

Stealing from out the palace of her soul 

Breath that seem'd like a thought, it was so pure. 

I could not break the spell, and as I told 

Of all the glorious visions that had swung 

In dreams around me, and that vainly I 

Assay'd the harp to give embodiment 

To my soul's ideal, and failing here. 

In desperation on the canvas flung 

The shadow of my heart ; and that my eyes 

Had never rested on the form my soul 

Had wedded, and would only wed, until 

Chance threw me in her presence ; she seem'd sad, 

And rose as she would go, — came back again, 

And sat beside me, and with trembling voice 

Spake something that I could not understand, 

About a palfrey, and a fav'rite bird, 

As she had lost them ; till a flush had sprung 

Up to her lashes, and a tear that stole 

From her full eye was burnt up by the heat 

Of her cheek instantly, and then she ask'd 

My former history, which being told. 

She spurn'd me not, but bade me have high hopes, 

And 



CONRAD AND STELLA. 193 



STELLA. 

She promis'd not to wed thee ? 

CONRAD. 

Even so. 

STELLA. 

Oh, father! 

CONRAD. 

And ay, more ! she flung a purse 
Of golden dust before me — bade me strive 
For that which men call Fame— toil— sweat— endure. 



And didst thou ? 



STELLA. 
CONRAD. 

Ay! 



STELLA. 

And fail'd ? 

CONRAD. 

What human breast 
Determin'd ever, and accomplish'd not ? 
Whate'er we sow we reap ; my name was heard 
O'er half of Europe. 



194 CONRAD AND STELLA. 

STELLA. 

Then thou sought'st her hand ? 

CONRAD. 

The worm had claim'd it for his own before ! 
I tell thee — it was ashes ! 

STELLA. 

Horrible ! 
But doth thy tale end here ? 

CONRAD. 

Stella, my heart 
Leads on too hastily — we must go back. 
I stood upon the balcony, where first 
Glitter 'd her eye upon me. The still eve 
Was broken only by the Muezzin's call 
To rites unholy ; o'er the city hung 
The white wing of th' Almighty — studded thick 
With sparkling brilliants — on the waters lay 
Their shadows quiveringly, the spicy air 
Droop'd with its own perfume, and all the East 
Panted with love, like a pure maiden's breast, 
Ere it is stilled in slumber. I do mind 
How drunk my soul that scene — 'twas but a moon 



CONRAD AND STELLA. 195 

Since I had seen Stambol — the dazzling glow 

Of tower and dome, and the Turk's crescent dwelt 

On me in its first freshness. I had come 

A Christian wanderer to the Prophet's home, 

Nameless, and friendless, daring want and scorn, 

And now a moon — a little moon had pass'd 

And not an Houri in the Sultan's Harem 

Shot on her lord-love more ineffable 

Than fell round me. The " cunning curse" that hung 

Above my spirit had been all fulfiU'd, 

And Zela spurn'd me not — oh God ! I said 

She bade me seek for fame — but it was not 

That I might claim her heart — 'twas mine, 'twas mine. 

Already mine, but that the envious tongue 

Of an accursed relative might cleave 

To his foul mouth, she asked it. He had wooed 

And madly claim'd her hand. 

STELLA. 

What didst thou then ? 
As doeth the mock'd lion for his mate ; 
Destroy ! oh ! horrible. 

CONRAD. 

I did not, — that 
Were foul, in sooth, thou knowest our creed 



196 CONRAD AND STELLA. 

That I have taught thee, when I bade thee say 

Thine orisons to God ; " As we forgive, 

So, Father, forgive us." Love works no ill. 

And it cannot be love that foully asks 

For blood, no ! no ! let the mad followers 

Of the Turk's Pagod thirst for it, we know 

One remedy for ills — I shrunk from blood. 

STELLA. 

Had she been noble too, as well as fair, 
She then had been my mother. 

CONRAD. 

Hush ! dear girl, 
Thou know'st not whom thou chidest. 

STELLA. 

Didst thou not, 
Oh horrible ! mean she had died when now 
Thou saidst her hand was ashes ? 

CONRAD. 

Ah! 

STELLA. 

Oh, God ! 



CONRAD AND STELLA. 197 

CONRAD. 

Bear yet a little longer ; thou hast guess'd 
The end too truly. I did mean she died. 

STELLA. 

Thou, dear father, — tJiou didst not insult 
Such stainless beauty ? 

CONRAD. 

Stella, I did ne'er 
Press that fair bosom ; the life blood 
That gives thy cheek its envious fullness finds 
Its parent lake in other breast than mine. 

STELLA. 

Oh, this is terrible ! what meanest thou ? 
I am undone forever ! 

CONRAD. 

No ! but hear me through. 
Thou'st but to look upon that picture now 
To know she was thy mother. 

STELLA. 

Conrad, speak ! 
My heart-life trembles on thy coming words ! 



198 CONRAD AND STELLA. 

CONRAD. 

I said we stood together on that eve 

Upon the balcony — a form went by 

As she return'd the pressure of my lips 

And bade " the Lord be with you," " Cursed knave. 

That mock'st the Prophet at this holy hour, 

Thy life shall be the forfeit," — 'twas his voice 

Who oft had whisper'd in her ear the words 

Of false affection — struck, I fell, and woke 

A bleeding outcast at the city gate. 

STELLA. 

Thou saw'st her then no more ? 

CONRAD. 

Yes, after years. 



STELLA. 



What then ? 



CONRAD. 

Well, I had toiled, and Fame 
Enwreath'd my youthful brow, my paintings stood 
Beside the works of Raphael. 

STELLA. 

Didst thou 
Still think of Zela ? 



CONRAD AND STELLA. 199 

CONRAD. 

Never for an hour 
Had she not been beside me. Earth to me 
Had ever held one look, one face, one eye, 
I never loved aught else. Ever had clung 
One image round my soul. 

STELLA. 

Well, and what more ? 



Is't not enough ? 



CONRAD. 



STELLA. 

Conrad ! 



CONRAD. 

Forgive. — 
Three years had pass'd, and once again I stood 
Upon that balcony. Zela was there ! 
Below us, mumbling in the city streets, 
Dogs fed on human bodies, a dire plague 
Had slain its thousands — funerals were not ; 
The ragged sails hung dangling round the masts, 
Fill'd with infection, and the water lay 
Stupid, and green, and waveless — all was death t 



200 CONRAD AND STELLA. 

I watch'd alone o'er Zela — save her child 
The pledge of ravishment, alone she breath'd 
Of friends, or ravisher ; I loath'd her not. 
Though she was dying — and I watch'd the plague 
Blotting her holy beauty. God ! I pray'd, 
Till the last life-spark fled. 

STELLA. 

I now know all ? 

CONRAD. 

Thou dost. 

STELLA. 

Oh, Heaven ! and thou couldst keep the fruit 
Of love thou never tastedst ? 

CONRAD. 

Ay ! to taste. 

STELLA. 

Conrad ! what meanest thou ? 

CONRAD. 

Does the snake sting 
After all this ? thy mother's face is thine. 

STELLA. 

And her heart too — dear husband — mine — oh, God ! 



THE DYING POET TO HIS WIFE. 



God be with thee, my beloved ! God be with thee in this 

drear^ 
Dark world that I am leaving without a sigh or tear, — 
Only that I tremble for thee, my beautiful ! my brave ! 
When the tongue that is thy life-guard shall be silent in 

the grave ; 
Yet a dream flits o'er my spirit that more radiant and fair, 
Thou wilt meet me up in Heaven where the other angels 

are, 
Though how thou canst be fairer I do not, do not know — 
God be with thee, my beloved ! God be with thee when 

I go. 



Ay, press thy lip yet closer, lay thy hand upon my brow ! 

Let the argent of thy bosom gleam on my dull eye now ; 

10 



202 THE DYING POET TO HIS WIFE. 

Speak the words thou oft hast spoken, sing the songs thou 

oft hast sung, 
They will quiver o'er my trembling heart though its 

chords be all unstrung. 
Ah, the fire that lights the Poet's eye full often leads 

astray ! 
His lip of honied sweetness is a lip of common clay ; 
'Tis that thou loved such worthlessness my own heart 

breaketh so — 
God be with thee, my beloved ! God be with thee when 

I go. 

Oh, could I — could I leave thee my lip's defying curl ! 
Thy smile is all too fair for this cold-hearted world, my 

girl,— 
My brave one ! oh, my beautiful ! 'twill taunt thee with 

my shame, 
I would, as I have hurl'd it back, that thou couldst do 

the same, — 
Breathe thy prayers up to the Heaven — breathe them up 

and up again. 
Till they break like rattling thunder round the damned 

race of men. — 



THE DYING POET TO HIS WIFE. 203 

There is One who hears his children though their words, 

like thine, be low — 
God will hear thee, my beloved ! God will hear thee when 

I go. 

The wheel will soon be broken, and the golden sands 
be run. 

Yet pledge me — pledge me this, beloved ! ere I go beyond 
the sun — 

Thou wilt live forever faithful to our solemn hearts' troth- 
plight, 

I cannot bear another's form shall press thy bosom bright ; 

I shall wait in yonder heaven for the tinkling of thy wings, 

When thou comest up all glorious beside the King of 
kings — 

Where our hearts shall ever mingle, and our tears shall 
never flow — 

God be with thee, my beloved! God be with thee when I go. 



Leave me, leave me, now, beloved ! haste thee, haste thee 

through the door ! 
There's a dark hand draws my curtain, there's a strange 

foot on my floor ! 



204 THE DYING POET TO HIS WIFE. 

Are these angels' wings around me — these their soft lips 

that 1 feel ? 
Are these sweet tones hallelujahs for a dying Poet's weal ? 
Ay, thou art very faithful — faithful even to the death ! 
Closer — closer then embrace me, while I give thee up my 

breath ; — 
Strike f if thou wishest. Shadow — 'tis enough for me to 

know, 
God will be with my beloved — he will keep her when 

I go. 

1846. 



THE STARS. 



Burning in hues of quenchless light, 
Fair jewels in night's azure crown ; 

How soft from your empyreal height 
Ye shed your silvery music down ! 

How calm ! methinks that hill and plain 
Are hush'd to drink the breathing joy, 

Joy that your souls cannot contain. 
Blest gazers into heaven's employ ? 

How must the heart of Eden burst 
With rapture, as your voices rang 

In choral symphony, when first 
The infant world in being sprang ! 

When o'er the pure, primeval earth, 

Heaven's deep acclaim was heard with thine, 

And the first living soul came forth 
To hail the wak'ning shout of Time ! 



206 THE STARS. 

And still ye shine — years have no power 
Upon your brows their change to set, 

As bright as at Creation's hour 

Your burning splendors kindle yet. 

Still look your glorious company down, 
When night unbars heaven's golden door. 

Still, though mad storms the blue sky drown, 
Ye sweetly shine when storms are o'er. 

What marvel ancient sages burn'd 

In your bright hues their fate to trace ? 

What marvel the old Sabian turn'd 
His eyes in worship on your face ? 

Had I thy wings, oh, tireless dove ! 

How would my spirit flee for rest 
To some bright sphere of light and love 

That burns on yon Empyrean's breast ! 

1846. 



FREE TRANSLATION: 

HoR. Lib. III. C. 26. 



I HAVE lived for the girls — there is truth in my story, 
And I think that I've battled with somewhat of glory, 
But the arms that I once used, I've hung on the wall, 
And I'll hang there myself, ere I'll touch them at all. 

My first love was Emily — my second was Sophy, 
I've a sweet lock of hair from them both as a trophy, 
Though I own I cropp'd one from my own pate to please 
Strange taste in my third, the bewitching Louisa. 

Oh ! days of my childhood, of " bread and of butter," 
When my sense was a bubble, my heart was a flutter. 
Why should I mourn for ye, since Julia Jane 
The last of my loves, now despises my chain ? 

1844. 



THREE LIVING LINKS 



" They are only three." 

Three living links — three living links 

Are all that now remain 
Of what we once so fondly call'd 

Our dear, dear family chain ! 
And in the gracious Providence, 

That e'er hath watch'd them o'er, 
Far from the scenes of other days, 

These three are met once more. 



Three living links ! I dare not chide 
The love that took the rest 

From care and sorrow here, to lie 
Upon His holy breast. — 



THREE LIVING LINKS. 209 

Ah, no ! I think my heart would bear 

The long, dark way to tread, 
Sooner than call one angel back, 

That to its home hath fled. 



Three living links ! and one doth now 

Weep with us joyous tears. 
Who comes back to our yearning hearts, 

The long desired of years. 
His brow, perchance, is shaded more 

Than ours, with thronging cares. 
And none may better tell than we. 

What mean those silver hairs. 



Oh ! beautiful is the holy hill 

Whereon another stands, 
The dew of Hermon on his lips, 

The peace-branch in his hands. 
God stay thee, brother, in thy work, 

God shield thee evermore — 
And give of souls thy guerdon vast, 

When toils and cares are o'er. 



210 THREE LIVING LINKS. 

One other link fills up the chain, — 

One little known to Fame, 
And yet above some strange- wove songs 

Ye may have seen his name, 
For he hath tried all artlessly 

To sound more wide abroad 
The music that his heart-strings played, 

Beneath the touch of God. 



The others oft upon his face 

With earnest gazes dwell, 
I think he's more within their thoughts 

Than they would care to tell ; 
I think, [and it may all be true,] 

They fear a flood of tears 
Will o'er his proud soul's fall be shed 

In the succeeding years. 



God, do Thou make his shoes of brass 

To tread life's flinty road. 
Sweeten his bread at every Inn, 

And bear Thou up his load ; 



THREE LIVING LINKS, 211 

For he must struggle much, and put 

His kindest thoughts away, 
He cannot stoop to Mammon-Love, 

Like other things of clay. 

And well I ween a weariness 

Of all beneath the sun 
Hath fallen in his youth of years 

Upon this self-same one ; 
So much the more then, Father, make 

His spirit fit for Thee, 
Since with thy creatures here on Earth 

No fellowship hath he. 



Three living links — three living links 

Are all that now remain 
Of what we once so fondly call'd 

Our dear, dear family chain ! 
The dust of death is on the rest, 

Their hues have faded fast, 
But so God keep the youngest one, 

'Twill join in Heaven, at last. 

1847- 



THESE LITTLE SONGS. 



'And give the worm my little store. 
When the last reader reads no more." 

O, W. Holmes. 



These little songs that I have sung 

Are very dear to me, — 
I'm fain to think, my gracious friend, 

That they were dear to thee ; 
You've ne'er forgot how blest we sat 

Beneath the list'ning trees, 
While I was reading on your face, 

And you were reading these. 

Or, how, upon the self-same page 
We bent with earnest look ; 

Our heads full closely met above, 
Our hands beneath the book ; — 



THESE LITTLE SONGS. 213 



Oh, rapturous hours ! oh, golden time ! 

What joy their mem'ry weaves, — 
Our hearts read on although the breeze 

Kept fluttering o'er the leaves. 



Oh, golden time ! but I have learn'd 

The Poet's dower since then, 
To bear a keenly tortur'd soul 

Among unfeeling men. 
I sit beneath God's silent night. 

None hear the words I say, 
And bear this everlasting flame. 

That drinks my life away. 

I've struggled long, — I've struggled hard,- 

I've eat the bread of care, 
I've wrung my heart out for these songs. 

My lot is hard to bear, — 
'Tis oh ! but to be dreaming on — 

'Tis oh ! to vainly pine 
For blessedness in days to come, 

I knew in days " lang syne." 



214 THESE LITTLE SONGS. 

I turn my book of Poems o'er, 

My eyes fill up with tears, 
How shall I dare to give the world 

These buds of early years ! 
I feel e'en now its blast of scorn 

Uprooting all my breast, 
As when a whirlwind demon tramps 

The great woods of the West. 



Dear heart ! sit by me, in my need, 

Speak but of what I've been, 
I fear me I shall yet be left 

To tread the paths of sin. 
Oh ! lay your hand once more on mine, 

And say 'twill not be so. 
That he who sang such precious words. 

Can never stoop so low. 



I may not tell e'en thee what change 
Hath o'er my spirit pass'd, 

Since you and I, — two happy souls, 
Read my strange verses last, — 



THESE LITTLE SONGS. 215 

Oh ! I was dreaming wildly then 

Of what might never be, — 
It breaks my heart ! — the very thought 

They may be naught to thee. 

Ah, me ! there's nothing left me now 

But wrecks of idle dreams. 
My thoughts float on, like shatter'd barks, 

Adown the silent streams, 
My heart is woe for youth and thee, 

For joys forever flown ; — 
I'll write no more, — I have no power 

To read my songs alone. 
1847. 



SONNET. — L'ENVOI 

TO THE REV. J. M. A. 



Dear brother ! if thy love left room for aught, — 

Then, by thy solemn office, would I plead, — 
Search, if some line be not to beauty wrought, 

Winnow all well, lest thou lose some good seed. 
I know how slightingly the world esteem 

" New Poems, by young Poets," therefore I 
Commend these fancies of my youthful dream 

To thee, to view in all sincerity. 
I feel most impotent ; — yet, if desire. 

And earnest faith have prompted to this deed, 
If only I fail not, but still aspire, 

I shall have comfort in my sorest need ; — 
There is who, from the Triumphs " soft and low," 
Will whisper to me, " Son ! arise and go." 

New-Yokk, Sept. 9, 1847. 



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